The boy was nervous that first week after he returned home, when he was subjected to questioning by the police. He stuck to his story, about moving from home to home without staying anywhere, and about not remembering the names or addresses of anyone who had taken him in. He'd known the police didn't believe his story, but they didn't push him too far. What was important was that he was home, and hadn't been hurt.
A few weeks later, he returned to a much-overdue doctor's appointment. He refused to undergo chemotherapy without a new examination, and his parents agreed, eager to reassure themselves that he really was all right after having disappeared for so long.
When the test results returned, the doctors were amazed. No trace of cancer at all; he'd made a full spontaneous recovery. They congratulated themselves for their unexpected part in the full recovery, and recommended that he get re-tested for signs of polyps every few years. The boy's parents were so happy, they almost forgot to be bothered by the re runaway attempt.
Years passed. The cancer never returned. The boy grew into a man named Brian. When he was in high school, he got his driver's license, and one evening, drove up to the area where he thought Golden Acres Farm should be. Nothing was there when he arrived but an empty field and the burnt-out remains of a farm house, which must have burned down at least fifty years ago.
He graduated, went to college, and found a job. When Brian was in his mid-twenties, he got married and had children of his own. One afternoon, while his wife watched the children and had some of her girl friends over for coffee, he went to the grocery store to pick up a few things for the rest of the week.
Brian walked up and down the aisles. He needed potato chips – had those in the cart. The next item on his list was fresh cranberries, but the store clerk had assured him that they didn't have any in stock; cranberries were out of stock.
Brian walked to the dairy aisle to pick up some milk. He scanned the racks, passing over the skim, and the chocolate, and the overpriced organic. A flash of color in the organic rack caught his eye, and he stared for a second. The carton had a picture of a purple cow on it, and the label read, "Gold Acres Farm– home grown for that homey taste."
Brian stared. HE remembered all those years ago, how Joe had claimed that he and Clarissa would never sell their food. Of course, the milk wasn't magical. It was the eggs that had granted Brian healing. Apparently, the pair had decided to share their gifts with the world after all.
He smiled, and put the milk into his cart. The mark-up was considerable, of course. That was true of any organic product. If only the health foods commission realized what sort of unnatural products appeared in their produce! Wishes and magic.
He smiled as he remembered that Joe and Clarissa were still out there. Maybe they still helped sick, scared little children. Or, maybe they helped everyone by sharing their gifts in a small way, and selling their milk.
Either way, he'd think of them that evening, when he'd put some milk in his hot chocolate after dinner.