 
Unremarkable

& Other Stories

Book One of the Universe Series

### Published by Sean Sandulak

### Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Sean Sandulak

Names, characters, places, and events are used fictitiously or satirically, and are the product of the author's overactive imagination. Any resemblance to actual locations, incidents or persons, living, dead or otherwise, is a complete coincidence and the product of your imagination.

These stories may contain mild profanity, violence, and other mature content. They are not intended for young children.

Unremarkable & Other Stories

Copyright 2012 by Sean Sandulak

All Rights Reserved. These works may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the written permission of the author.

Published by Sean Sandulak

seansandulak.com

ISBN 978-0-9936982-1-7

## Forward

Strange things are happening, but no one wants to talk about them. Whether it's the tales of people with extraordinary abilities, or the rumors of a secret government organization established to hunt them down, few can deny that the world has become a strange and sometimes frightening place. In the middle of it all, a few individuals try to make sense of the mystery and hunt down clues to its origin, while others can only try to deal with the consequences.

——————————

Book One of the Universe series – This collection is the first part of a serialized short story series I began in 2012 as a way to experiment with mechanics of storytelling. After completing the first few, I realized that they were starting to form a part of a larger narrative, so I've rewritten some of the older pieces and have reformatted others to give a more consistent style throughout. Each story is intended to work as a stand alone tale, but also in conjunction with the rest. Consequently, in many of the stories, there are clues and exposition that give you insight into what is happening in the other stories in the shared universe.

I hope you enjoy these stories and will continue to follow these adventures.

# Uncomplicated

## Cassidy

The party had been dreadfully dull and full of grown-ups she'd never met before. The youngest kid, besides herself, had been a twelve-year-old boy who wanted nothing to do with her, as she was only nine and a girl. With nothing to do and no one to talk to, Cassidy had slept through most of the evening on the pile of coats in the spare bedroom and was wide awake now as her father drove her mother and her home.

Looking around in the back seat for a toy to pass the time, Cassidy saw her father's old phone peeking out from under his seat. He had downloaded some games earlier and given it to her to play with. She thought she had lost it, but it had reappeared just in time to save her from the long dull trip through the country. The only problem was it was out of reach. Mommy was sleeping, and Daddy was busy driving, so she figured they wouldn't notice if she undid her seat belt for a little while. She slid across the seat and reached underneath to grab the phone.

The car began to sway. Her father was shouting. There was a bright light and she was flying, weightless. The sounds of shattering glass and bending metal were somehow muted, as if they were far away and this horror was happening to someone else. Then, just as suddenly as the light had come, the world went dark, and she was falling into what seemed like an endless abyss. There was pain as she hit the ground and rolled down the embankment to the trees below. She cried out, but there was no one there to answer her.

As she regained her senses, a dim glow to her right caught her attention. Cassidy was surprised to find she still held the phone clutched in her hand. She tried to dial but her fingers wouldn't move. She couldn't even feel them. When she tried to reach for the phone with her other hand, pain shot up her arm forcing her to stop. Despite the protestations of her bruised flesh and broken bones, she managed to slide her torso closer to the phone until her head was right next to it. That was when she realized the reason she couldn't move her fingers was because her arm was no longer attached to her body.

She should have been horrified and screaming. Perhaps it was the shock or just a consequence of her unique mind, but she managed to keep calm despite all of her injuries. Cassidy knew she needed help and her parents must be hurt as well. She might be the only one still conscious, and she needed to stay focused if they were going to be rescued in time. She leaned over and dialed with her tongue. Finally, someone picked up. She tried to speak but all she could manage was a faint call for help before she became dizzy and rolled over on her back.

There was another loud bang, and something coming toward her fast through the darkness...

She woke with a gasp and nearly slipped off her stool. Having fallen asleep at her workbench again, she was groggy and disoriented. Even after all these years, she kept finding herself dreaming of that night and all the things she couldn't change.

A tiny ball of fur nudged her arm, demanding attention. She picked up the robotic kitten and nuzzled his neck and stroked his back fur. She knew it was just the algorithms responding to a need to recharge that made it act that way, but even she was still fooled by the mastery of her handicraft.

"If you didn't purr so much, you wouldn't wear out your batteries so fast," she scolded the simulacrum. She cradled it in her hands as she carried it over to the small pet bed which hid the induction charging plate. "There you go. Sleep tight." She stroked the tiny kitten on the head a few times and it immediately curled into a ball and pretended to be asleep.

Cassidy had almost worked out the kinks in the programming and would soon be able to sell the design. The money she earned would set her up for life, indeed for several lifetimes. The ersatz animal had been her most difficult challenge to date, and she wanted it to be perfect. She knew her little friend would be the object of desire for every child with a parent to beg from, and a companion to those who, for whatever reason, couldn't have a real animal. There were already thoughts of a similar puppy, perhaps even a teacup piglet, running through her head.

She wished she could have had one when she was younger. After her parents had died in the crash, she'd been sent to live with a foster couple who had forbidden any pets because of the woman's allergies. A manipulative shrew of a woman, she was more interested in the government cheques than she was in raising children. Her husband had been doting and pleasant enough, but his wife was another story entirely. Once Cassidy had carved out a workspace in the garage, however, the woman had learned that she would be left alone if offered the same in return.

The accident had left her with only two working fingers and a thumb on her left hand. The other arm had been severed below the elbow and, in the long minutes it had taken for help to arrive, had been rendered unrecoverable. It had been the third car, swerving to miss the accident, that had slid down the embankment and crushed her legs.

She found solace in her gift for invention. Within a year she had built herself a dollhouse. Unlike other girls her age though, her dollhouse was not a Victorian house with antique furniture. Her creation was an Art Deco inspired mansion that was designed with clean, straight lines and circles. Built from plaster and glass, it had working lights and plumbing.

While that worked for a few years, Cassidy quickly found that building toys was not enough to engage her anymore. Unsatisfied with the prostheses she had been given, she sought to improve on them. By the time she was sixteen, she had made a pair of legs that allowed her to walk without the aid of crutches. She used them to run away from her foster home. That was ten years ago. She had made improvements since then.

There was a knock at the door. She didn't have any appointments today, and she wasn't expecting any packages. Still groggy from sleep, she walked over to answer the door. Her workspace was in a small warehouse off of an alley, selected to avoid curious passers-by. Casual visitors were unheard of, and Cassidy did not know anyone in the city well enough to call them a friend, having only moved here a few months ago. She wondered who it could be.

She straightened her long brown hair and tied it up in a ponytail. Through the small window beside the door she saw two men in suits, one tall and about her age, the other older and average height. Strange men at her door could only be preachers or Feds. Whether they were J-men or G-men, men in suits were always bad news.

She opened the door and gave the men a scowl. "Yes. What do you want?"

"Miss Cassidy Miramontes?" The older one asked.

"Maybe," she snapped back. "Who's asking?"

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. With a practiced flip of his wrist he opened it to reveal a laminated ID card. "Military Intelligence. You recently applied for a contract with Anders International. As an entity with several sensitive government contracts, we are required to vet all potential employees, contractors, and vendors. We would just like to ask you a few routine questions. May we come in?"

"What's the deal?" she demanded. "I've worked for them before but I never had to submit to a background check."

"Circumstances change, and with them, policies," said the younger one, casually. "If you'd rather I went back and told them you're not interested in the contract anymore, that is your only other option at this point."

Cassidy never liked strangers poking around her workshop, especially when they showed up unannounced. She considered just dumping the job and tossing these two clowns out on the street, but she needed the money for her robot pet start-up, and the project was a fascinating problem in design. Ultimately, her enthusiasm for the work overcame her distaste for intrusive questions from the government. "Whatever. Ask your questions."

"We also need to inspect your workplace," said the other agent, "so why don't we step inside and talk." A thin smile crossed his lips as he squinted in the sunlight.

"All right, come in," she said, half-heartedly. Her gut was telling her that something about these guys didn't seem right, but their credentials seemed to be legitimate. She strode to her workbench and sat down on the stool, deliberately forcing the agents to stand if they wanted to talk to her.

The two men glanced around. It was all one room except for a small bathroom in the back. In the corner nearest the door, a couch and television were set up in a makeshift living area. Nearby were an old fridge and a counter with a hot plate and microwave. Assorted pots, plates, and boxes of food were carefully arranged on the shelves underneath. The rest of the space was given over neatly stacked shelves of mechanical and electrical components, sorted by their function and size, and to the large workbench where Cassidy spent most of her time. An overhead door was the only other egress. The space had once been used as a garage, and it still smelled faintly of used motor oil.

"You live here?" the younger man asked with thinly veiled contempt.

"I'm between places right now," she replied, masking her own scorn. "Seeing as how I was spending most of my time here anyhow, I just started crashing here. There were some projects I didn't want to leave unguarded as well."

It was the older one who spoke this time. "Is security a problem? This doesn't look like the best neighborhood."

"After someone tried to break in the first time, I secured all the windows with bars and the doors with double deadbolts. Plus, I put in a security system of my own design. If anyone ever tries to break in again, they're in for a nasty surprise."

"You make custom electronics and devices?"

"Only the best," she said.

"And you're the only one who works here?" asked the older one. "There are no other employees?"

"It's a one-woman show. I don't like ordering people around and I don't have to answer to anyone except who I choose." Cassidy's patience was wearing thin and it was starting to show. She had to remind herself that these guys were bureaucrats doing their job. The sooner she got through this, the sooner she could get on with her life. She slowed her breathing and tried to calm her rising ire. "Why is Military Intelligence doing background checks anyway? Isn't that the Bureau's job?"

The older agent ignored the question and turned to the younger one who was standing off to one side, arms folded across his chest. "So, what do you think?"

The tall man scowled and answered, "You know what I think."

"Yes, I do." When he turned back to Cassidy, he seemed almost sad. "Do it."

For the first time since he had shown up on her doorstep, the younger agent showed some life. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol with a long barrel. Before she could even think to react, he pulled the trigger. A dart hit her in the thigh, but it bounced off the plastic of her artificial leg.

"Shit!" yelled the younger one. "Is she armored? Nobody said anything about body armor."

Cassidy bolted off the stool. She did the only thing she could and ran for the door. A sharp pain hit her in the back between the shoulder blades as she opened the door and ran outside. She only got a few steps before she felt dizzy and her vision blurred. She had to stop before she fell on her face. A few seconds later she blacked out and collapsed to the ground.

For the first time in years, Cassidy slept untroubled by nightmares, but she woke dazed and weak. Her eyes were too heavy to open and her mouth was dry and pasty. She tried to roll over on her side to make the lumpy couch a little more comfortable, but she found she couldn't move. Memories started to come back, and panic flooded through her as she became aware that this time the nightmare was real.

Her artificial limbs were gone and with them any way of fighting back or escaping. They had even taken her clothes, leaving her lying there in nothing but her underwear. It was like she was some kind of freak on display for the whole world to see.

All at once she felt like she was trapped in the ditch again with the black shadow rushing toward her. She couldn't open her eyes or even turn her head, but she could make out half-a-dozen voices. All she could do was listen as these strange men tore apart her shop and her life.

"I want everything examined and cataloged before it gets moved. We don't know what kind of surprises are waiting for us."

"Be careful with that. It looks delicate."

"Are we taking the tools as well?"

"Yeah. Everything goes."

"Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

"So how do we classify this one?"

"Cyborg?"

"No, they're not implants. They're just attachments. It would be like calling you a cyborg because you wear glasses."

"If she made the glasses they would probably be real x-ray specs. This stuff is amazing."

"So molecular manipulation, then."

"I don't think so. See here. It was welded in place. Granted, it's expert workmanship, some of the best I've ever seen, but otherwise it's unexceptional. And she wouldn't need all the tools if she could do it without them."

"What does that leave us with?"

"Hyper-sapient?"

"What, super-intelligence? I've only met one before, and he sussed us out in three seconds. This one let us walk in the front door. And they never bother with material things. They live almost exclusively trapped in their own heads."

"I think we may have to consider the null hypothesis."

"What does that mean?"

"She might not be, you know, one of them."

"But she fits the profile perfectly: loner, secretive, self-employed, extraordinary abilities, childhood trauma."

"Nevertheless, there is one fairly obvious thing that you all seem to be overlooking. If she's one of them why didn't she heal? Why is she still missing her legs and arm?

"Shit, he's right"

"No, that's not possible."

"On the contrary, it was inevitable, statistically speaking."

"Can we test that? Maybe a small cut..."

"Don't be a barbarian. You shot her with a tranq, didn't you? Check the puncture mark. It'll be an hour old already."

She felt hands turning her over on her side, and then examine her back. She tried to scream, but she couldn't move her mouth to vent her rage and shame. She had never felt this helpless and vulnerable. Somehow this was even worse than when she had lain in the woods, waiting to die. This felt like it would never end.

"That doesn't prove anything."

"Actually, we use healing as one of the prime indicators. I don't think we've seen a single case that didn't have accelerated healing to some degree."

"Christ, she's waking up."

"I got it."

A sticky, sweet spray hit her in the face. She might have thrown up, but the paralytic in her system had suppressed her gag reflex. Helpless to move, she was forced to breathe in the vapors. The room spun for a second before the blackness of sleep returned.

When Cassidy woke again, she was in an unfamiliar room, a cell of concrete painted white and with a heavy metal door in one wall. She was lying on a bunk, dressed in an orange jumpsuit which was trimmed and roughly stitched where the pant legs and one sleeve would have hung down uselessly. A wheelchair was parked beside the bed.

"You're finally awake."

Cassidy's head snapped to the corner of the room at the foot of the bed. She recognized the older of the two agents sitting on a chair, staring back at her.

"Where...?" Cassidy's mouth was still bone dry and she choked on the words. She pushed herself to a sitting position on the bed with her good arm and instantly regretted it.

The agent filled a plastic cup with water from the nearby sink and handed it to her, letting her take a sip before continuing. "While I'm sure you're curious about where you are, it probably hasn't occurred to you that we don't want you to know. Suffice it to say you are a military prisoner being held for national security reasons." He sat back down in the chair and leaned back like he was preparing to stay for a while.

"You don't have any right to hold me. I haven't broken any laws." She drained the cup and tossed it back at the sink. It missed and clattered loudly before coming to rest on the floor.

"Officially, you have suffered a psychotic episode and are being held indefinitely for your own safety. I can show you the paperwork if you like. It's all perfectly legal and signed by doctors and a judge. We can keep you here as long as we like."

Cassidy knew from the tone of his voice the man wasn't joking. Still dizzy and confused from all the drugs they had pumped into her today, she was in no condition to argue. Only one more question occurred to her. "What do you want from me?"

She must have said the right thing, because he smiled and leaned forward in the chair. "It's very simple. We're at war, and we need your help."

"You have a hell of a way of asking for help." If she hadn't been so sick and scared, she might have laughed. "You have a whole army to fight your wars. Why do you need me?"

"First things first," he said. "We need to find out whose side you're on."

"What do you mean? Who are you even fighting?"

"All that in good time." He gestured to the wheelchair and said, "Are you up for a little trip?"

Cassidy looked at the rickety wheelchair and sighed. It had been many years since she had needed one of those. "I don't suppose I could get my legs back?"

"One step at a time."

She hated to admit it but she was going to need some help to get in the chair. She was still off-balance from all the sedatives, and she was long out of practice in any case. The agent seemed to anticipate her needs however, and brought the wheelchair up next to the bed. He bent down and guided her into the chair with a practiced efficiency that told her that he was a man with some medical training. It felt odd and a little demeaning to be so dependent on a man who, for all intents and purposes, had just kidnapped her, but she had always been pragmatic. She had to be strong if she was going to survive.

They went down a long corridor with many more cells, until they came to a large metal door with a guard dressed in riot gear. As they approached, the guard opened the door to let them pass. Beyond was another passageway leading away at a right angle to the cell block. This one was freshly painted, but pipes and other conduits ran along its ceiling. It looked like a service tunnel where the previous one had looked more like a dungeon. After they had gone through the door, the guard sealed the door again without a word or even a nod of acknowledgment.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"It's a lot of things," he said, absent-mindedly. "A military base, a research laboratory, and sometimes a prison. I know you have a lot of questions, but they are just going to have to wait. There are reasons for the things we do. Very serious reasons." His voice trailed off as if he were recalling some unpleasant memory.

They moved in silence through several more tunnels until the came to another reinforced door. This one opened on to what looked like a hallway that one might find in the basement of a hospital or a university. Again an armor-clad doorman closed and sealed the door behind them. Cassidy got the distinct impression that these rooms and hallways were normally bustling with activity, but had been cleared out because of her. She couldn't help feeling silly thinking that these burly stormtroopers were around to protect a bunch of military types from a cripple who would have trouble making a sandwich in her current condition.

They passed through a set of double doors into a large room filled with workbenches full of machining tools and plastic bins. She immediately recognized most of the things as belonging to her. It was everything from her workshop, abducted and imprisoned like her. She felt the need to check and make sure everything was accounted for and nothing was broken, but the agent had other ideas.

He pushed her up to a low table with nothing on it but small bin about the size of a shoebox. Reaching in, he pulled out a heavy plastic collar and started to fasten it around her neck.

"What is that?" she asked.

"Sorry, but this is non-negotiable," he said, sternly. Everybody wears these here. Even me." He pulled down his shirt collar to reveal that he was in fact wearing an identical band around his neck. "They're as much for your protection as they are for security."

As the collar clicked and locked into place she immediately felt an electric shock and reached to pull it off. "Ow! I think it's broken. It just gave me a nasty shock."

"That's perfectly normal," he said. "You'll get used to it."

"Well, I don't like it. It itches."

The agent reached into the bin and pulled out a circuit board. He placed it on the table in front of her and said, "What can you tell me about this?"

Cassidy turned it over in her hand, giving it a cursory glance. "It's a circuit board."

Unamused by her sarcasm, he said, "Anything else?"

"Can I have my loupe?" she asked. "It should be with the tools that were on the workbench when you broke into my house and assaulted me."

"Loupe?"

"That magnifying eyepiece jewelers use to examine gems. It's probably in that red toolbox in the corner."

He walked over and rummaged through the box. After half a minute, he found the small black cylinder and held it up, "This thing?"

"Yes, just put it on the table," she answered. "And I'll need a multimeter. It's the small yellow box with the wires coming out of it over there." She put down the circuit board and wedged the loupe over her eye. For several minutes she examined the electronics, until finally she said, "Rather standard communications controller. Custom work and design." She looked up at the agent with a sly grin. "It keeps shorting out on you, doesn't it?

The agent looked pleasantly surprised. "Yes. Do you know why?" he asked.

"This resistor here is mislabeled," she said, pointing to the board. "It comes from a factory in China with notoriously bad quality controls. It's actually an order of magnitude weaker than it's marked, letting the current bleed into this pathway where it can't handle that much juice. Then, poof!"

"Can you fix it?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "I can fix anything. In my blue storage cabinet, third shelf from the top, sixth drawer from the left, there's a replacement resistor. Those are made in Mexico, but by an American company. They're much more reliable. And I'll need a soldering iron. It's probably in the same toolbox you found the loupe. Oh, and somewhere to plug it into. There should be an extension cord around here somewhere."

He put the iron and resistor down on the table in front of her, and ran the extension cord to a wall socket. Even with only the use of her organic hand, she made quick work of the job. When she was done, he put the circuit board back in the bin and closed it up. He unplugged the soldering iron and moved it back to the other table out of reach.

From the corner of the room, the robot kitten started to cry out. She was glad to see that it had made the trip unharmed. "He's programmed to demand attention if he can't get back to his charging station," said Cassidy. It's the pet bed he's sitting on. Could you plug it in for him? If you don't he'll just keep mewing for an hour."

"Can't you just shut it off?"

"No," she said, "it's not designed that way."

The agent picked up a hammer from one of the tables and walked over to the wailing cat. Without hesitation or second thought, he brought the hammer down hard on the kitten's back. It instantly went silent and didn't move.

"Asshole!" shouted Cassidy. "Do you have any idea how hard that was to make?" Of all the indignities she had suffered in the past day, this was somehow the worst. There was a ruthless brutality to the act that hurt her more than any beating would have. "Whatever you want from me, you can forget it. Take me back to that cell and throw away the key, I'll never help you!"

He ignored her cries and instead scooped up the broken remains and deposited them on the table in front of her. In a calm voice that belied his earlier burst of violence, he said, "Fix it."

"You fix it," she shot back.

"You said you could fix anything," he said. "I'll make a deal with you. If you can fix this, I won't ask you to do anything else today. Otherwise, you will go back to that cell until we figure out what to do with you."

She stared up at him angrily, like a defiant child who refuses to eat her vegetables, but it only took moments for her will to cave. There was a certain finality about the way he had said that last threat; she didn't want to test his patience. Besides, fixing the cat was something tangible she could do to take her mind off her situation, and to be honest, she hated to see the little guy in that condition.

The agent played nurse to her doctor, fetching parts and tools as she required. It was difficult with only one hand to do the work, but he would assist her when necessary. As she worked, he continued to ask her questions. She would quickly grow impatient every time she had to explain or describe some process or piece of equipment, like he was a small child who kept demanding his mother's attention. Despite all the obstacles and distractions, two hours later she was replacing the kitten's fur exterior.

"There. It's done. He'll need to charge for at least six hours before he'll move, but otherwise he's in perfect shape." She paused and then added, "No thanks to you."

If he heard the remark it failed to show on his face. After he had placed the robot cat on its bed, he went back gripped the handles of the wheelchair. He pushed her through the lab doors and back toward the long tunnels that had brought them here.

"So, you're still not going to tell me what this is all about?" she asked.

She had expected only silence, or at best to be politely dismissed, but instead he answered, "I think that went very well. I'll have to speak with my superiors, but at this point that's just a formality. By tomorrow, you'll know more than you thought possible. In fact, you'll learn some things that you'll wish you could forget. I know I wish I could forget them."

When she was locked in her cell for the next few hours, she had time to think about what he had said and all she had experienced. What was so bad that even a hard-ass like that would want to block it out? What was really going on at this base? She had a lot of questions but no answers.

The small panel on the door slid open and a tray of food appeared. She had been too preoccupied to realize it, but the smell of food reminded her that she had not eaten for more than a day and she was famished. She wheeled over and took the tray. As soon as it had cleared the slot, the panel slid closed and locked. It was passable cafeteria fodder at best, but she shoveled it down as if it were from her favorite restaurant.

Along with the food, they were kind enough to give her a reader to pass the time. As she scrolled through the index she saw there were a couple of hundred books on it, mostly highbrow stuff like Shakespeare and James Joyce. Maybe she would start reading 1984 or Les Miserables out of spite. She could certainly sympathize with being unjustly persecuted at the moment. Cassidy tossed the reader on to the bed. She would look at it later.

When she was done with her meal, she dropped the metal tray to the floor with a clatter. Despite being keenly aware of the camera in the ceiling, she could not wait to go to the toilet any longer. Cassidy rolled over to the stainless steel basin built into the wall. The cell had obviously not been designed with her needs in mind; there were no handrails and little room to maneuver the wheelchair into a favorable position. Leaning forward on the seat she vaulted herself on to the toilet landing with an uncomfortable thud that she was sure was going to leave a bruise on her backside.

She unzipped the front of her jumpsuit and managed to work it down past her waist. When she was done, she tried to flush but the recessed button was on the wrong side and she couldn't work it with her stubby arm. She zipped herself up and moved the wheelchair back so she could hop into it. As she leaned into the chair, the brake slipped and it flew backwards and hit the far wall before toppling over. With nothing to brace her she fell forward on to the floor, taking the fall on her side. Cassidy yelped in pain as her hip and shoulder smacked on the concrete.

Still, she felt fortunate that she had not gone down on her skull instead. She propped herself up into a sitting position on the floor and dragged herself over to the bed, wincing with the pain on each slide. When she finally reached it she tried to get on the bed, but it was too high, and despite several tries, she couldn't get the leverage to pull herself up.

She was debating whether to pull the mattress down on the floor and sleep there when the door opened. Pushing the toppled chair away, the same agent rushed in, bent down and scooped her up off the floor. He laid her gently down on the bed and asked, "Are you hurt?"

"What took you so long?"

"I was on the other side of the base when I got the call," he said. "No one else is authorized to come into your cell."

"Why?" she asked. "Because then they'd have to deal with the poor cripple girl?"

"No, because they're all terrified of you."

That stopped her cold. It explained the strange behavior and the isolation. But why would they be afraid of her, she wondered. It was like seeing grown men being afraid of the dark. It didn't make sense. "You keep saying I'm this huge threat," she said, sheepishly, "but I can't even go to the bathroom by myself. What has got you all so scared?"

He took the blanket from the end of the bed and pulled it over her. "I'm sorry I meant to come earlier, but I got stuck in a meeting. Lights out is at ten o'clock sharp. There is a five-minute warning beforehand." He picked up the reader and handed it to her. "This has a backlight if you can't sleep. I'm sure you can figure it out for yourself."

He walked over and righted the wheelchair before picking up the tray and utensils which he set down on the seat. Cassidy winced with embarrassment as he went to flush the toilet for her. "Why won't you answer me?" she asked. "It's not like I'm going to tell anyone your big secret."

"You should try to get some rest. You've got a big day ahead of you."

"Please," she begged. "Just tell me one thing. Anything."

He took a bottle of water from out of his jacket pocket and leaned over to place it on the bed where she could easily reach it. As he hovered over her he whispered, "My name is Michael Carstairs. Tomorrow you'll appreciate the trust I am showing you now by telling you that."

When he stood up again, he had already resumed his stoic demeanor. "I'll leave that there in case you get thirsty. I'll see you at six in the morning." Without another word he walked out of the cell, pausing only to pick up the food tray. The door quickly closed and locked behind him.

If anything, Cassidy was more puzzled than ever. She found herself wondering about the man as much as the mystery. What was happening to make Carstairs a vicious thug one moment and a thoughtful caregiver the next. There was something fundamentally wrong about this – beyond the abduction, the imprisonment and the tests. All she knew was that tomorrow was going to be filled with either wonder or horror, and she could not hide from it for much longer.

She tried to read but found it hard to focus her eyes on the page. Too much had happened to her in the past day and now they were asking her to sit in a tiny room and wait. She had never been patient, and her one outlet for her pent-up energy was being denied to her. Building things was all she had ever been good at.

Whether it was through boredom or fatigue, she drifted off to sleep even before they shut off the lights. She had the dream again. It was the same as it always was. She was reaching for the phone under the seat and then she was flying through a shower of broken glass. The agony of lying in the darkness trying to call for help. And then the shadow flying down toward her, coming to crush the life from her.

This time she didn't wake up as she usually did. The car landed on her legs, pinning her with its tremendous weight. After the tempest of sound from the collision and the thunderous racket of the third car coming down the slope, the forest around her was silent as a tomb. The only sound she could hear was her own screaming. She was crying out to her parents, to anyone, if only they could take this pain away.

She heard someone coming down the slope toward her, a shadow silhouetted from behind by the headlights of the cars on the road above. Cassidy cried out to him for help, to end her unbearable suffering. He came closer and closer until finally she could make out his face. It was Carstairs.

She woke with a start to find him standing over her holding a large, black duffel bag. For a moment she could not tell where the dream had ended and reality had begun.

He placed the bag down on the end of the bed, and said, "Get dressed. I've got a lot to show you." Without another word he stepped out into the hallway and the door closed behind him.

Cassidy opened the bag and felt relief at the sight of her prostheses. It had taken only a day without them to appreciate how much she had become almost completely dependent on them to do even the most basic tasks. She unzipped the jumpsuit and wriggled out of it.

Checking the remaining charge on her arm, she frowned. There was enough for a day or so, if she didn't have to do anything strenuous. She assumed the charging plates must be with her other equipment in that lab. Cassidy would need to find them today, or she would soon be back in that godawful wheelchair. Otherwise her limbs seemed to be in good condition.

When she had used the toilet and gotten redressed, she stood in front of the metal door, mourning the absence of a toothbrush. Just as she was about to knock and call out, the door opened again. Then she remembered the camera. They were watching, always watching. She was already starting to take that for granted.

Carstairs was alone, waiting outside for her. He gestured for her to walk in front of him, in the opposite direction they had gone yesterday. They walked down a long hallway with perhaps two dozen more cells like the one she had been in.

"How many other innocent people have you got locked down here, anyway?" she asked.

"In this block...only you," he answered. "There are several more cell blocks, but we have only two other guests at the moment. We try to keep you separate from each other. You...they don't always mix well together."

"It was originally built to house people who needed to be kept out of the spotlight, as they say. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that. It was abandoned a decade ago in favor of an offshore base where fewer questions would be asked. It suited our needs, so we quietly took it over a few years ago.

Cassidy was a little surprised. Carstairs was being positively chatty compared with yesterday. She decided to risk a little more. "Where are we going?"

"Here," he said, directing her to the left. Inside was a small locker room leading to a communal shower. "There are toiletries and a change of clothes for you. Leave your old clothes and everything else here when you're done. I'll be waiting outside. Don't be too long."

A shower would go a long way to making her feel better, so as soon as he left she stripped down and started the water running. Along with a pile of clothes and a towel was a bag with deodorant, a hair brush, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. By the time she was done in the shower she felt almost human again. The clothes were hers, although not ones that she would have picked, but anything was better than that filthy jumpsuit.

Carstairs was patiently waiting outside as promised.

"So what's next?" she asked.

"Breakfast."

They went back down the way they had come, and for a moment Cassidy thought he was going to lock her back up in her cell. Instead they went past it and back out into the other hallway toward the lab. They went past that as well and continued on until they got to an elevator. Instead of a button there was only a keyhole. Carstairs fished in his pocket and pulled out a key ring with half a-dozen keys. The elevator began to move down to their level.

Carstairs handed her a laminated badge. "Put this on and don't take it off for any reason. You might get shot, and neither of us wants that." The doors opened and they both got in. She noted they were three levels below ground. Like outside, the control panel here was only a set of keyholes. Carstairs put the key in the hole for the top floor, three levels above ground. The doors closed and the elevator began to climb. Cassidy got another surprise when he handed the key ring to her. "Each key is for a specific elevator only. Don't lose it."

"So this means I'm not a prisoner anymore? I can leave anytime I want?"

"It means you've been granted some privileges because of your particular situation," he said. "You're still our guest, until someone higher up than me says otherwise. Act accordingly. And whatever you do, don't try to sneak off the base. They take that sort of thing very seriously around here."

When the doors opened, Cassidy was momentarily blinded. The room was a spacious cafeteria with large windows overlooking the base. For someone locked underground for almost two days it was a little jarring to see the bright morning sunlight pouring through the windows. The next thing to hit her was the sound of a few dozen people talking. She had always been a loner, both by circumstance and by choice, but she realized she had missed the occasional chatter of other human beings, even as background noise.

Carstairs caught her elbow and nudged her out of the elevator before the doors closed again. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that many of the faces there were turning to look at her. Apparently they weren't accustomed to visitors. Cassidy couldn't have cared less, however. People had been staring at for her entire life. Besides, she was hungry.

She grabbed a tray and piled it high with enough food for two people. Despite it being the middle of the breakfast rush, there was still an open table by the window. She grabbed a chair and Carstairs joined her, though he only had a cup of coffee.

"Not eating?" she asked.

"I've been up for hours. I've already had my breakfast."

She ate until she was full, but still he wouldn't tell her anything. Cassidy couldn't bear the mystery any longer. If he wasn't going to tell her what was going on, she was going to have to pry it out of him. "All right, it's time. Spill it. What's going on? Why am I here? What's with the secrecy and the dog collars and the stormtroopers?"

Carstairs sipped from his cup, leaned back in his chair, and looked out the window. "Did you ever read comic books as a kid?"

"Sure, I still do," she answered. "I get some of my best ideas from graphic novels."

"What if I told you there were real super villains in the world? Right here. Right now."

She smirked. "You can't be serious."

He didn't smile back, but instead continued his explanation. "There are people out there who have extraordinary abilities. It's our job to find them and study them."

"Oh my god, you're serious," she said. "So what? There are guys flying around and invisible men?"

"I've never heard of anyone actually flying, but I've seen one or two that could jump off the roof of this building and walk away. I never met an invisible man, though."

"That you know of," she quipped. She thought she almost saw him grin. Then another thought came to her. "So, wait. That's why you picked me up? You thought I was a super villain?"

"In essence, yes."

This time, she laughed out loud. "And I'm the one that's supposed to be crazy."

"That's just for leverage," he said. "You're lucky you're an orphan. They like to use threats against your family, too."

"Funny. I don't feel lucky to be an orphan."

Carstairs went quiet for a while. She was afraid she had pushed him too hard with that last comment and embarrassed him. She had forgotten that under that gruff exterior there was still a human being with feelings that could be hurt. That was the last thing she wanted now that she was so close to finding out the truth. She decided it was best just to let it pass like it had never happened. This was why she preferred machines. She could understand them.

She wiped her mouth with the paper napkin and tossed it on the empty plate in front of her. "So, what's next?" she asked.

"I'll have to show you. You wouldn't believe me if I just told you," he said.

They made their way back to the elevator and took it back down to basement. He led her back to the lab and they went inside. The first thing that caught her eye was her kitten napping on his bed in the corner. He perked up as she petted his head and neck and then rolled over on his back to play. She was so glad to see he was okay, she completely forgot why she was here.

"There will be time for that later," interrupted Carstairs. "I still have a lot to show you."

She left the kitten and it went back to sleep. It reminded her however that she was going to need her own charging plates back. "There's some equipment I need to maintain my prostheses. I'll need access to it today, or they're going to stop working."

"We can arrange to have anything you need taken to your quarters when we're done here."

"Quarters?" she said, mocking him. "Is that what we're calling my prison cell now?"

"No. There's a dormitory for civilian personnel who, for whatever reason, are forced to live on the base. I've arranged a room for you there. That is, provided you accept our offer."

"An offer I can't refuse, I suspect." She eyed him curiously and asked, "So what is it that you want from me?"

"First things first," he said. He picked up a file folder from the table and handed it to her. "I want you to take a look at this."

Cassidy opened the thick folder and peered at its contents. There were reports on a number of topics, from metallurgy to quantum physics to sociology. And then she saw what looked like an electron micrograph of a dust mite. Only it wasn't. She looked closer at the picture and was amazed at what she saw there – a tiny insect-like creature that was unlike any she had ever witnessed. The lines were smooth and perfect as if it were sculpted to imitate one of those tiny alien bugs that live on our skin in the millions, but it was obvious that this thing wasn't organic. This mite had been built by someone with a technology that far surpassed anything she had ever seen.

"Where did you find this?" she asked.

"They're everywhere."

It took a moment for that to sink in. "What do you mean by everywhere?"

"I mean it literally," he answered. "They are on the walls and floors and ceilings of every room you go into. They are on that folder you're holding. They are in the food you eat and the water you drink. They are on you and in you. And me. They are everywhere.

"That's not possible," she shot back. "Someone would have seen them before. They're large enough to see with any hobby shop microscope. You can't tell me the government is that good at keeping secrets."

"It was 1953 when a scientist by the name of Peter Carlson was working in a lab examining metal fatigue in airplane wings. According to the story, he was working next to a large, unshielded transformer that was throwing off a large amount of electromagnetic interference. When he discovered our little friends there, he allegedly became so paranoid that he wouldn't leave the lab until he came up with a way to fight them. Based on his experiments, he developed the first 'dog collars', as you call them. The design hasn't changed much since then."

"Whenever he would explain his discoveries to someone, however, they would forget as soon as they left the lab. Eventually he convinced an army captain to wear one of his bands, and from him knowledge of the creatures spread to the military."

"But that would mean..."

"Yes," he said, "it would mean that not only can they affect our minds, but also that someone out there is controlling them."

Cassidy reached up and felt the collar between her fingers. Now she was glad for the tiny shocks it gave her if it meant it was keeping the bugs out of her brain. Still, a part of her wanted to rip it off so she might forget the past two days.

"I'm still having a hard time believing this isn't an elaborate prank," she said. "I'm going to need more than a story, and a pile of paper. I need irrefutable proof."

"We can start here," he said. He walked over to another table upon which sat a large microscope. "We have a sample prepared for you. But please be careful with it, they're very hard to get. It takes a whole day to prepare one sample."

She looked at the microscope. It wasn't one of hers, but she wished it was. It was the best that money could buy. She peered through the eyepieces to confirm what was coming up on the monitor. It was true. They had mounted one of the tiny machines on a slide.

"Apparently nothing will kill them except the heat of a blast furnace or a lightning strike. That's how we get ours. There's a large Tesla coil in one of the labs. I'm told the real trick is gathering them up before their friends find them and dispose of the bodies. When the battery attached to that slide wears out, that guy will disappear as well, I assume."

"This is remarkable," she said without looking up. "But what does this have to do with these so-called super villains? What's the connection?"

"In every person we've found with abilities, there has been a marked increase in the number and complexity of the machines in their body. The one you see here is just the basic model. That was how we were sure that you weren't one of them. We got that one from your blood sample."

Cassidy instantly felt violated. This bug had been crawling around inside of her? She stifled a desire to smash the creature then and there. After all, it was already dead. But then she realized it was just one of thousands, possibly millions, that were still swimming around inside her and all over her skin. She shivered and fought back against the rising anxiety that threatened to become a full-blown panic attack.

Carstairs reached to change the slide to the next sample. "This one was taken from a man with demonstrated healing abilities. You can see not only structural differences, but also notice how they've arranged into a long strand. We see that a lot in these cases." As Cassidy was examining the new sample, he looked up at the camera and said, "Send them in."

"Send who in?" asked Cassidy, but almost immediately the door to the lab opened and a man in a lab coat, a young woman, and two soldiers in khakis walked in.

"This is our lead scientist and his assistant," said Carstairs. "You'll be working with them if you decide to stay."

"I've always worked for myself and by myself," she said. "I don't like answering to anyone."

The scientist stepped forward and offered to shake her hand. "Hi, I'm Leslie, and this is Miranda. There seems to be some misunderstanding. We will be working for you, not the other way around. I've had the chance to go over some of your work since you got here, and...well, I'm just beside myself. Your designs are years ahead of anyone. It would be a privilege just to watch you work."

She shook his hand but quickly let go. "Um, all right," she said, awkwardly. "Just tell me one thing. What's with the whole 'don't use any names' thing?"

"Oh, that," Leslie said and smiled. "We once had a prisoner who allegedly could impersonate anyone if he learned their name. One of the generals gave the order that no one was to use their names anymore and it was never rescinded. Since then, it's become a sort of superstition among the soldiers, and somewhat of a running joke among the civilians."

"Doctor," interrupted Carstairs. "If we could stick with the guidelines we discussed earlier, we can get through this without any more delay."

"Of course. My apologies. Please continue."

"There is one final thing I can show you, just in case you still have any doubts." The doctor produced a small key and unfastened the collar from around Carstairs neck. He rubbed the bare skin as if it had been a while since he'd had the collar off, and he felt naked without it. One of the soldiers drew a large taser and pointed it at Carstairs. His hands shook a little as if he was nervous, but if Carstairs was worried it didn't show. He turned to the other soldier and asked for his knife. The young soldier, who couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen, paused for a moment, but then pulled a large knife from its sheath on his vest. He handed it to Carstairs who, after checking to make sure Cassidy was watching, drew the blade quickly across his forearm, leaving a large gash.

"Jesus, man," cried Cassidy. "What did you do that for?" She grabbed a towel from the nearby sink and rushed over to him to staunch the bleeding.

He grabbed her arm and held her back. "Just watch."

She winced as she saw the blood pouring out of his wound. The cut had been deep and he needed to get it stitched up. But as she watched, the damage to his arm began to spontaneously heal. No, not heal, she thought. Healing involved clotting blood and scar tissue. The cut was sealing itself up like an invisible hand was pulling a zipper underneath his skin. In less than thirty seconds there was no trace of an injury. Even the blood had been reabsorbed.

He nodded to the man in the lab coat who reattached the collar. The soldier with the taser relaxed and holstered the weapon. Everyone seemed to be breathing a little easier now that the demonstration was over.

"That's a hell of a party trick," said Cassidy. "All right, I want to believe. What happens now?"

"Now, you make a choice," he said. "Either you agree to help us to understand what these things are and how we can defend ourselves against them, or you can sit in your cell and have a front row seat for what might be the end of the world."

For some reason, Cassidy's mind drifted back to that fateful night when she was lying in the woods, pinned underneath that car. She had never felt so helpless and alone. More than anything she had wished for the power to go back and set things right. If she could figure out how these things worked, no one needed to die a senseless death like her parents had. And no one would have to grow up like a freak with missing parts. It would almost make up for what she had done, if her father hadn't turned around to see what she was doing out of her seat...

"Okay, I'm in," she blurted out. "I just have one condition."

"Let's hear it," he said.

"The first thing I'm going to do is redesign these collars so they don't itch. I can't think straight with this thing on."

"If you can do that," said Carstairs, "you would earn the undying gratitude of everyone on this base." For the first time, Cassidy saw him smile.

# Unnoticed

## Penelope

Sunlight streamed through the half-closed drapes as Penelope woke. She stretched out on the bed and smiled. Sliding out from between the fine sheets, she gathered her purse and clothes and went into the bathroom to begin her morning routine.

Whenever there was a vacancy, she always stayed at the Kingsbury. Except for the few places where decent people didn't stay, she had tried all the hotels in the city at one time or another. This place was closer to being a home than anywhere else that she had known. It wasn't the fanciest or most expensive hotel, but it had character and a charm the others lacked.

And this was her favorite room in the hotel, tucked away in a quiet corner. It had the best view of the waterfront except for the penthouse, but that was almost always occupied. Upstairs there was more space, but since there was only herself to worry about, she didn't need all the extra room. It only made her feel more alone.

Penelope checked her watch and decided that she still had plenty of time, so she stripped down and hopped into the shower. As the water cascaded down her back, she mused idly about how they had the best shampoo here. It really made her long red hair shine. She thought that it wasn't as good as the one they used to have, but it was still great. Plus it smelled like green apples, not that anyone would notice except her.

When she had dried herself off, Penelope hung the towels back up where she had found them, careful to make them neat and even. While getting dressed, she caught a whiff of sweat from her shirt and noticed a tear in the armpit. Deciding it was time for a change, Penelope pulled a spare shirt from her bag and put it on instead. She would have to go shopping later, but that would have to wait until after breakfast. She was starving.

She tidied up as best she could, making the bed and wiping down the counter. That was one of the rules she had for herself: don't be an unnecessary burden, and always clean up after yourself. When she was done, she checked her purse to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything. Running through the checklist in her mind, she compared it to the contents inside. She knew she would never get back anything that she left behind, and her entire life was in that bag. When she was satisfied that everything was there, she checked herself out in the mirror.

"Good morning, Penelope," she said to her reflection. "Are you ready to start the day?" She smiled at herself and checked her teeth one last time. "All right. Let's go."

She was just about to reach for the doorknob when it suddenly started to turn. Penelope realized that she had taken too long in the shower. It was always awkward when the maid showed up and she was still in the room. She quickly stepped back to avoid getting hit by the opening door. The maid peered about suspiciously before pushing into the room with her cleaning supplies.

"Sorry," said Penelope. "I was just leaving." She squeezed by the cart which was partially blocking the door. The maid continued as if she had not heard Penelope apologize. She was used to being ignored by the hotel staff, but she never let it stop her from saying she was sorry. It was another one of her rules.

She pressed the button for the elevator and waited. When the doors opened, a man in a suit glanced around casually before becoming cross and jabbing the door close button. Penelope stepped calmly into the elevator and stood in the corner. She knew the button did nothing, and she had plenty of time. The doors closed and the man returned to his earlier stoic posture.

She studied him as they rode down to the lobby together. Obviously he had been staying in the penthouse, as that was the only floor above this one. Despite all his wealth and the luxury that surrounded him, he seemed irritable. The rich were always in a hurry and were rarely happy, she surmised. They took their privilege and their surroundings for granted. Penelope was glad that she never had to worry about money. She had enough problems as it was.

When she got to the hotel restaurant, she was happy to see that it was full, but not so full that she couldn't find a seat. While she usually limited herself to food that no one would miss, like buffets and salad bars, today she was feeling hungry and was craving something different. She made her way to the kitchen and found an isolated corner. From there, she watched as the customer's orders were finished and placed on a shelf for the wait staff to pick up. The waffles looked good, but she wanted something more substantial. Finally, she made her choice when one of the cooks put down a plate with a fancy egg white omelet with bacon, rye toast and hash browns on the side. She couldn't have ordered better if she had done it herself.

Timing was everything. More than once she had wound up with hot coffee burning her skin or a literal egg on her face. But years of practice had given her a certain skill, and accidents like that almost never happened now. She waited for the right moment and saw a break in the hustle of the crowded kitchen. Penelope stepped forward, grabbed the plate, and stepped through the swinging doors into the dining room all in one fluid motion.

She found an empty table next to a young couple, but they were talking about stocks or something mundane like that, so she wandered to the other side of the room. Penelope found a retired couple who were planning a trip to Italy and parked herself nearby. When she had been younger, she had roamed the world extensively, looking for answers. Traveling had been fruitless and lonely, however. These days she preferred the familiar comforts of her hometown. Still, the romantic part of her longed for adventure, even if it was vicarious.

A waitress was three tables down pouring coffee for a party of five, so she took her empty cup and walked over to them. After the waitress had poured the third cup, Penelope put her empty cup on the table and quickly picked up a full one, being careful not to spill it. She went back to her table to finish her eggs and coffee, with no one being the wiser. For the next half hour, she listened to stories about Tuscany and Florence until the couple got up to leave. With her belly full, she decided it was time to get on with her day. It had been a splendid one so far, and she was actually looking forward to it.

First things first, she thought. She gathered her dirty dishes and wiped down the table with her napkin. She carried the dishes to the busing station where they would go back to the kitchen with the remains of the morning rush. It was the least she could do, all things considered.

Passing through the lobby, she made her way outside. It wasn't even noon yet, so she decided to visit the art gallery before she went shopping. Penelope loved to sit and stare at the paintings, sometimes for hours at a time. She often wished that she could paint like that. Maybe it was because she wanted to leave behind a record that she was here on this earth, that she did something that mattered. She would like to touch someone the way these people reached out to touch her, even beyond death.

After only fifteen minutes, however, a noisy school field trip shattered her peace and made being in the gallery intolerable, so she went down the block to Calhoun's, her favorite department store. She preferred to avoid the smaller, privately owned shops. Taking advantage of a faceless corporation never made her feel as bad as when the people who owned the store were standing right there. That was a rule too: never take more than you need, and only from those who can afford it.

Going down to the clearance racks at the back of the store, she began thumbing through the t-shirts and spring jackets. After finding a pair of light cargo pants that would fit, she checked to make sure that she had what she needed and that everything matched. She draped her new clothes over the rack and stripped down where she was. Penelope wrapped her old clothes in a bundle so she could dispose of them later. People would start asking questions if they found used clothes lying about. Also, she didn't like to leave a mess for someone else to clean up later.

"Mommy, that woman's naked."

Those few words sent a chill down her spine. For the first time in years, she suddenly felt self-conscious about being undressed in public. When you're invisible, you quickly forget about the little social niceties like changing rooms. She instinctively covered up her body as she looked around for the source of those words. A little boy, maybe four or five years old, stood tugging on his mother's arm and pointing right at her.

"Mommy, mommy, look!" cried the boy. The mother looked down at her son and then glanced in her direction but then returned to browsing through the clothes.

"You can see me?" she said, incredulously.

He giggled.

Suddenly embarrassed, she ducked behind the clothing rack to cover herself. As quickly as she could, Penelope threw on the pants and shirt she had picked out. Suitably covered, she gathered her old clothes and quickly stuffed them in her purse.

Penelope went over to talk to the boy. She crouched down so as not to scare him, and to give herself a better look. "Hello," she said, but the boy just smiled and looked away. Crestfallen, she tried again. "Can you really see me?"

"You have pretty hair," he answered.

She burst into tears. It was the first compliment that she'd gotten in decades. "Thank you," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Thank you so much."

"Why are you crying? Are you sad?"

"No," she answered. "I'm crying because I'm happy. I've never been so happy in my life."

"Who are you talking to, Bobby?" The boy's mother had suddenly taken an interest in what was happening.

"The lady with the red hair," said Bobby, pointing at Penelope.

"Oh, I see." She bent over to fix the boy's hair and shirt into something more presentable. "You have quite the imagination. Did I ever tell you that? So what's your new friend's name?"

"I don't know," said Bobby.

"Well, why don't you ask her then?"

"Okay," said Bobby. "What's your name?"

"I'm Penelope," she said. "You don't know how happy I am to meet you, Bobby."

"Hello," he said in return.

"So what's her name, Bobby?" the mother asked.

Bobby seemed puzzled. He couldn't figure out that his mother couldn't see or hear someone standing right in front of her. "It's Penelope," he said.

"Like in the story about the goldfish? Hello Princess Penelope...let's call you Penny for short. I'm Anne. It's a pleasure to meet you." Anne held her hand out in a pantomime of a handshake. "Won't you join us for lunch."

Penelope hesitated, but these were special circumstances. "Of course I'll come." She gripped Anne's hand, just for a second before letting go. A strange expression passed over Anne's face as she realized that something was wrong, but the look quickly passed as it always had before. She shrugged and took Bobby's hand in hers before heading for the cashier. Penelope followed the pair outside.

"We're having soup and sammiches," said Bobby.

"Sandwiches, Bobby," his mother corrected. "Sandwiches."

"That's what I said," Bobby insisted.

"I'd love to join you," said Penelope, "but I just had a big breakfast and I'm not very hungry. Maybe we could just talk for a while."

"Okay."

"So tell me, Bobby. What kind of things do you like?"

Penelope talked with Bobby all through lunch while Anne spent most of her time chatting with a friend on her phone. They spoke of how he was looking forward to going to school in the fall, about comic books and dinosaurs, and all his favorite foods. Occasionally, Anne would look over to Bobby and smile or to wipe the food from around his mouth.

After an hour it was time to go home. They walked several blocks west until they came at last to a row of townhouses. They weren't mansions by any stretch of the imagination, but Bobby's family were certainly no strangers to money. That kind of wealth didn't really matter to Penelope though. She could walk into any bank and come out with bags of cash anytime she wanted to, but when you can't spend it, money quickly loses any value.

They were met at the door by an overexcited terrier. While happy to see its family again, it clearly didn't know what to make of Penelope. It barked at her and even growled once, bringing condemnation from Anne. "Shush, Precious," she said. "Silly dog. Barking at nothing." She chased the dog into the kitchen before coming back to send Bobby upstairs to try to get him to take a nap. Today she was surprised when he almost immediately agreed.

"Princess Penelope's going to read me a story," he said gleefully and bounded up the stairs to his room.

"Well, thank you Penny, wherever you are."

"You're welcome," she answered, knowing Anne would not hear. That was another rule. There was never an excuse to be rude, even if no one knew it but you.

Upstairs, Bobby sat up in bed waiting for a story. "I want to hear this one," he said, holding up a slim, colorful volume.

Penelope took the book from him and smiled. It was one she had loved as a child about a goldfish that gets too big for her bowl and goes on a series of adventures. She remembered how her mother had told her many times that she had been named after the princess in the Undersea Kingdom. She had to admit there was a resemblance, right down to the long, red hair, but she preferred her legs to the mermaid's tail. What a coincidence it was that, of all books that he could have had, this would be his favorite.

"Where should I start?" she asked. "From the beginning?"

"Yeah! Read the whole thing," he answered.

"I don't know if I can read the whole thing all at once." she said quietly, trying to calm some of the boy's enthusiasm. "But let's start and see how far we can get today." She read for about twenty minutes until Bobby's eyelids started getting heavy and he fell asleep.

Putting the book down, she took the opportunity to think about what had happened in the past few hours. Someone had seen her. That hadn't happened in so long she could barely remember the last time.

She had been about Bobby's age, maybe a year younger. She remembered it was the day after her mother's birthday; there was leftover cake in the fridge. Everyone suddenly stopped talking to her. After a while they became scared and started to panic when they couldn't find her. Eventually the police came. There had been a lot of crying that day.

Penelope had made herself hoarse yelling at them. "I'm right here! Stop joking around! It's not funny anymore." She hurt her hands slapping and punching everyone in the house. She threw everything she could lift at them but they still ignored her. Eventually they stopped looking and she stopped trying to get their attention.

At first, she had thought she was dead, but ghosts don't need to eat or drink, and she couldn't walk through walls. She wasn't just invisible. It was more like anything that she did was erased from people's memories. No, not erased. More like a letter that got lost along the way to being delivered. People would just fill in the blanks with rationalizations or just shrug it off as a weird feeling.

She had survived by raiding the refrigerator and grabbing what she could off of the dinner table. At first she slept in her room like always, but her mother would get upset when anything in her room was moved. That was when she started cleaning up after herself. She couldn't stand to watch her mother cry.

Later she had started going to school, but she quickly found that, without anyone to talk to, it was a lonely experience. Sometimes she would pretend she was the most popular girl in class. She would sit at the cool kid's table and imagine that she was one of them. Once she even kissed the cutest boy in school, but it broke her heart when he didn't even notice. So much for the power of true love, she thought. There was nothing that would break her curse.

She had discovered that she had a sharp mind and learned things quickly. She began to spend more and more time reading in the library and less time in class. By the age of sixteen she left school altogether. She left home shortly after that. Being so close to her family and yet so far away was becoming more than she could bear. She decided a clean break was best. She had spent the next few years looking for a cure or at the very least an explanation, but all of her research and experimentation was in vain. Her condition was beyond anyone's expertise.

Still clinging to hope, Penelope had started looking for more people like herself. Even one person would make the difference between happiness and a slow descent into madness. But after years of careful observations, she could not find anyone else who had been erased from the world. Either they didn't exist, or they were invisible to each other and she would never find them. Honestly, with no leads to follow, she had been ready to give up looking.

Until she had stumbled upon this boy – this miracle. He was the first real breakthrough she'd had since she had started her quest for an answer. Finally, she had a conduit to the outside world, even if it was somewhat limited. Eventually, he would grow older and would be able to convey more complicated information, but for the moment, she was just glad for the company.

Anne opened the door and stuck her head in the room just as Bobby began to stir from his nap. "Hello, sleepyhead. What are you going to do with the rest of your day?" she asked.

"I'm want to play with Princess Penelope. We're having so much fun."

"All right, dear. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

"Okay, mom," he said and waited for her to walk away. After he was satisfied that she was out of earshot he asked Penelope, "She really can't see you, can she?"

"No, I'm afraid not," she said.

"Why can I see you?"

Penelope thought about it for a moment. "I don't know, Bobby," she said finally. "You're special."

He smiled at that as she knew he would. Everyone wants to think they're special somehow. Suddenly, as if it were a great revelation, he shouted, "Let's play a game!"

"Okay," she said, "but keep your voice down. What do you want to play?"

"Hide and seek."

Penelope cringed a little. "All right. If you want to, we'll play. But you hide and I'll go find you. When I used to play hide and seek, no one ever found me."

"Hiding is the fun part!" said Bobby as he hopped off the bed.

"Ninety-nine...ninety-eight. Better get moving."

They played games for better part of the afternoon, and Penelope read some more of the story. She even tried to teach him to play chess, but he quickly grew bored with the game. It was a shame. She had always wanted to play.

Later, at dinner, when Anne wasn't looking, she ate all of Bobby's vegetables for him. His mother was so pleased, she gave him an extra helping of dessert. They shared their private joke with knowing looks and some giggling.

After dinner, Penelope and Bobby sat and watched a movie in the basement playroom while Anne did the laundry and cleaned the kitchen and bathrooms. It was a movie with animated groundhogs meant for small children. Although it was cute, she quickly grew bored and found herself nodding off. She opened her eyes to find Anne about to sit on top of her. Suddenly awake, she scooted out of the way at the last second. To Bobby, the near mishap was hilarious. He laughed freely, much to the puzzlement of his mother.

Penelope was not as amused. She knew that if she were ever seriously hurt, she could never go to a doctor; there would be no help for her. She had studied enough medicine to treat minor ailments and first aid on herself. So far she had been lucky. However, she knew a major illness or trauma would be a death sentence. That was why she kept a bottle of sleeping pills in her purse. Just in case. Thinking about what might happen always scared her. It wasn't good to dwell on such things.

Bobby's laughter was infectious, however, and it soon lightened her heart. "One time a fat lady on the bus sat on me for nearly half-an-hour. I thought she would never get up. I could hardly breathe." She pretended she was being squashed by an imaginary giant. Bobby howled with glee.

When the movie was over, Anne took Bobby for a bath. Penelope took the opportunity to look around the house. There were three bedrooms: The master, Bobby's room, and one other which was apparently being used as a home office but doubled as a guest room. Downstairs there was the usual living room, dining room and kitchen areas. And in the basement there were the utilities and laundry, as well as the play area set aside for Bobby.

I could make this work, she thought. I could sleep on the couch here or maybe in the guest room. Anne's a size or two bigger than me but I could borrow some of her clothes. There was bound to be plenty of food in the refrigerator. Speaking of which, she was feeling a little hungry. She had not eaten much at dinner, except for Bobby's veggies. A little test raid was in order. She went back upstairs to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, she immediately spotted one of her favorites: a slice of cold pizza. She thought to herself that this is turning out to be the best day ever.

When she closed the door, Precious was standing there growling at her. She knew animals couldn't see her either, but their senses were more acute. The dog could tell when something was wrong. Precious would grow accustomed to her in time, but for now she was just going to upset the family with her barking. She rushed at the dog, scaring it into the next room. She immediately felt bad about doing it. Okay, she thought, new rule. Always be kind to animals.

Penelope heard the front door open and went to see what was happening. Anne had gone to meet the man at the door. She leaned in and kissed him and they started talking. She had seen his picture here and there around the house but hadn't given Anne's husband much thought until now. Watching the two of them catch up on the events of the day it was obvious even to her how much they loved each other. You could see it in their eyes and the way they moved, like they were two parts of one being. Penelope had to admit that she was more than a little jealous of them. She had never known that kind of intimacy, and seeing them together reminded her that she probably never would. She left them alone to go and say goodnight to Bobby.

She found him sitting in bed with the goldfish book, looking at the pictures. He was waiting for her. "Princess Penelope! Can you read the rest of the book now?"

"I will if you want me to," she said, "but your father's home. Maybe you should ask him to read it to you."

Bobby's eyes opened wide with delight as he jumped out of bed and ran toward the open door. "Daddy's home!"

The boy's father walked into the bedroom and caught the boy rushing toward him. "Hi, Tiger. Did you miss me?"

"I did miss you. Are you staying home now?"

"Yes. I don't have to be anywhere for a few weeks so I'll be able to spend some time with my favorite little man." He tickled the boy's stomach and his son squealed with glee.

Anne appeared in the doorway and chided her husband, "Don't get him all worked up. He'll never get to sleep at this rate."

He laid Bobby back on the bed and picked up the book that was lying there. "How about if I read you a story? Will you promise to go to bed then?"

"I want Princess Penelope to read to me. She does all the funny voices."

A concerned look crossed the man's face as he tucked his son into bed. "Yeah, your mom told me you had a new friend. She sounds like a lot of fun, but it's important that you make friends your own age, too. I'll tell you what – tomorrow we'll go to the park and you can play with the other kids there. How does that sound?"

"Can Penelope come too?" asked Bobby.

"Maybe next time," said his father. "I haven't seen you for days, and I want to spend some time with you."

"I'd like that. I missed you, Daddy." Bobby reached out and gave his father the biggest hug he could.

"And I love you, Tiger," he said and kissed him on the top of his head. "Now, why don't you say goodbye to...uh, Penelope, and I'll come by and check on you later."

"Okay. G'night Dad."

"Sleep tight."

Penelope felt her heart sink in her chest. She had been so involved in her own problems that she had not considered the consequences of her plans to Bobby and his family. She ran through it in her head now. Bobby would become increasingly dependent and obsessive about his invisible friend. He wouldn't be able to develop normal relationships with his peers. His parents would spend all their time worrying about their son. They would waste all their money trying to cure something which wasn't a delusion. It would break their hearts and might even destroy their marriage.

And Penelope would have a front row seat to the breakdown. Already having lived through that horror once with her own family, she didn't want to go through it again. As much as she needed Bobby, her being here would only cause him harm. It was better to get out now. She would come back later, when he was older and could understand.

But not today. This was their special day and nothing would ruin it. "Where were we?" she asked, picking up the book. "The part about the sunken treasure, I believe." Twenty minutes later she had finished the story and turned out the bedroom light.

"I don't care what my Dad says," Bobby murmured. "You should come to the park. You're the best friend I've ever had."

She was glad for the darkness that hid her tears. "You're the best friend I've ever had, too."

"I don't like the dark. Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?"

"Of course I'll stay," she said, trying to comfort him. Penelope took off her shoes and hid them under the bed with her purse so no one would accidentally see them. She crawled into bed and lay down beside Bobby. She stroked his hair and he curled up next to her. "There's nothing to be afraid of here," she added. "I'll protect you. I promise." A few minutes later they both drifted off to sleep.

When Penelope woke, it took her a moment to remember where she was. When she did, her heart sank. Their day was over and now she would have to try to get out without causing too much damage. There was one thing she needed to do first, however. She found a pen, picked up the storybook, and she began to write:

Dearest Bobby, I will treasure the time we spent together forever.

Always remember – Penelope was here.

Bobby would know that he hadn't imagined her even if anyone else passed the inscription off as a random doodle by one of his babysitters. Someone would remember her, and that was a victory, however small.

She went downstairs to see what was happening and get a handle on how Bobby was feeling. It was later than she had thought and the family had already eaten. Through the window she could see that a light rain was falling, but it looked as though it would let up soon. Bobby's father was helping him with his raincoat and they were almost ready to leave.

Bobby's eyes lit up when he saw her. "Princess Penelope! We're going to the aquarium instead of the park because it's raining. Are you coming with us?"

Penelope held her finger up to her pursed lips to shush his outburst. She decided there wasn't going to be a better time to say goodbye, so she took Bobby's father's keys off the hallway table and ran downstairs. After tossing them on the couch, she hurried back to find him impatiently searching the foyer.

To Bobby she said, "Tell him you think you saw his keys downstairs." The father cursed under his breath about not playing with his things as he stormed off to get them. "I'm sorry if I got you in any trouble with your dad. You can just blame me. I wanted a minute alone with you. I wanted to say goodbye. I have some things to do, and I won't be here when you get back. But I promise I'll come back and see you as soon as I can. Okay?"

"I guess so," he answered. "Do you have to go away on business like Daddy does?"

"Something like that, yes. I'll really miss you."

"I'll miss you too," said Bobby. "Come home soon."

Home, he had said, so innocently. How could he know that was the one thing that she had always wanted but had never had. He was making it so hard to leave, but she knew she must. She gave him a big hug just as his father came back.

"Okay, let's go." He opened the door to let the boy out. Penelope stepped back but didn't see the dog standing behind her. Suddenly jostled by an unseen force, Precious panicked and ran out the front door. Bobby went out after her, calling her name.

"I'm sorry," cried Penelope even though no one could hear her. "I'll get him back." His father paused to get the dog's leash from the closet before he went after Bobby, so she had a head start. Her socks were soaked from the wet ground, and Penelope instantly regretted not putting her shoes back on earlier. She had almost caught up to the boy when Precious turned and ran straight into traffic. Without realizing the danger, Bobby followed.

Penelope was right behind him. A beat-up truck was coming down the street straight at them, so she did the only thing she could. Using her own momentum, she managed to grab the boy and threw him clear just before the pickup slammed into her body. The impact sent her flying up over the hood and into the windshield before landing on a pile of scrap metal in the bed of the truck. The driver skidded to a stop and hopped out of the truck looking for what he had hit.

Bobby was screaming. "Princess Penelope! Dad, you have to help her."

His father picked the boy up and held him close. "Don't you ever do anything like that again. Do you hear me?"

"Is everyone all right?" the driver asked. "He just ran straight out in the street."

"Yes, we're fine," said Bobby's father. "Everyone's accounted for." Even Precious was bounding down the sidewalk toward them, yapping obliviously.

"She's hurt," Bobby cried. "You have to help her!"

"What's he talking about?" asked the driver. "Who's hurt?"

"It's nothing," said Bobby's father. "Just his imagination."

"Strange," the driver said. "I could have sworn I hit something." He walked to the front of the pickup and puzzled over the dent and the crack in the window he found there.

Penelope knew nothing but pain. She was surprised that she wasn't dead. It felt like every bone in her body must be broken and all her organs were crushed. Worst of all, a jagged piece of steel had pierced her back and was poking out through her stomach just below her ribs. Her breaths came in sharp, painful gasps, and she had lost a lot of blood. She wished she had her pills, but she had left her bag in the house. At least she knew she would not last much longer, not like this.

Her only consolation was that Bobby was safe and would go on to live a full life. Penelope had been given a gift in the form of that little boy. She had reached out and touched the world and it had touched her back. No one could ask for more than that, even if it was only one day with one little boy.

As her mind faded into the blackness of unconsciousness, she wondered if anyone would ever find her body.

# Unremarkable

## Jacob

Jacob Cutter rummaged through the convenience store fridge. He needed to get some milk if he wanted something besides toast for breakfast tomorrow. Looking for the freshest carton, he carefully sifted through the contents of the shelf. He didn't know why he even bothered to check the expiry dates. He'd never had milk go bad on him, not for as long as he could remember. It was just habit as much as anything. Still, if Mr. Wu was going to charge so much for it, he figured that he should get his money's worth.

As he walked to the counter, he almost bumped into a teenager who was thumbing through the magazine rack. Jacob had never seen this kid before, but he'd crossed paths with a hundred just like him. The punk dressed like the gutter trash that had been moving into the neighborhood recently, bringing drugs and all sorts of other unpleasantness with them. Jacob couldn't say that this one in particular was doing anything worse than looking through the adult magazines, however, so he just excused himself and kept walking.

Not that Jacob was likely to do anything about it if the guy were making trouble. As a rule, he didn't like to get involved in other people's business. People had called him a loner all his life, but he didn't care. He just wanted to go home and relax after working all day in the warehouse.

On an impulse he grabbed a chocolate bar and bag of barbecue chips. As always, Mr. Wu was waiting at the counter with a forced smile. "Scratch and win today?" asked Mr. Wu. "Are you feeling lucky?"

Jacob thought about for a few seconds before giving in. "Sure. Why not? Give me that one." Wu handed him the lottery ticket which Jacob promptly scratched to reveal his prize. Once again, he had won back his two dollars but nothing more. He shrugged and handed the ticket back.

The old man opened his eyes wide in surprise. "Every time, you win. I've never seen anything like it in my whole life."

"Maybe someday my ship will come in, and I'll win the jackpot," said Jacob. It was a little game that Mr. Wu liked to play. Jacob figured that he was palming a fake ticket, but why the old man would go to the trouble for the sake of a bad joke was beyond him. It was best just to humor him, Jacob figured, like he was an annoying uncle at a family reunion.

"Remember when you win, I get half," said Wu. "That's the rule."

Jacob gave Wu a weak smile, picked up his bag, and walked out. The bright sunlight blinded him for a few seconds, so he turned his head away from the glare. He noticed some fresh graffiti on the front of the store. Unlike most of the retailers in the neighborhood, Mr. Wu made the effort to keep his store free of tags. He went back and cracked the door open just enough to call out, "Hey, Mr. Wu. Someone's spray painted your store again."

Satisfied at doing his good deed for the day, Jacob started down the sidewalk toward his tiny run-down apartment. It was unseasonably warm for so early in the spring. The bars and restaurants had already opened their patios and were getting ready for the evening supper rush. Jacob took off his jacket and carried it, enjoying the enticing smells from the diner across the street. He spied a young couple holding hands as they sipped their wine and felt a slight pang of jealousy. He looked away and quickened his pace.

## Sam

"I just can't believe it. Let me see that again." Detective Sam Dregg leaned in closer to the screen to get a better look. The events were unmistakable. Just after the last customer had left the store, a kid had pulled a gun on the owner and had started demanding cash from the register. Startled by the customer suddenly returning, the teen turned and fired the pistol toward the door, but nothing happened. The hammer fell a second time and then a third, but the gun refused to fire.

Sam turned back to the forensics technician. He had some Polish name that he couldn't be bothered to remember. Everyone usually just called him Red, for the ridiculous shock of strawberry hair he wore. "Well it's obvious what happened," said Sam. "The dumb shit doesn't know how to use a gun, and he's left the safety on."

"Wait, this is my favorite part," said Red, continuing to stare at the screen. The owner of the store, realizing that the robber was unarmed, pulled a bat from under the counter and proceeded to attack him, eventually knocking the boy to the ground. He rewound the video to watch it again. "The safety was off when the gun was recovered from the scene, and it wasn't jammed. There was nothing wrong with it or the ammo. It just didn't go off."

"Maybe, but I don't believe in luck," said Sam. "It's more likely the safety was on, and it got bumped when he dropped the gun. Anyway, that customer's still a witness. I need to get a statement from him. Can you give me a close-up on that guy?"

"Yeah, just give me a minute." Red replayed the recording once more, shuttling back and forth between frames, looking for the best shot of the man's face. A few more keystrokes and he was done. "I emailed you a copy. Happy hunting."

It had been one of those days when nothing had gone right. Sam had woken up with a stiff neck only to discover that he was out of coffee. Now he was on some wild goose chase, trying to track down a witness who probably didn't see anything. He knew that this penny-ante shit wasn't going to get him the promotion that he wanted. This was just another small time stick-up, and the would-be robber was already caught. Hell, he was practically in a coma. Sam Dregg had been the youngest cop ever to be promoted to detective in the history of the city, but if he was going to make lieutenant, he needed something big, something that would get him noticed.

## Hope

She could not help feeling that she was cursed somehow. Hope knew it was silly to think like that. There were no such things as curses except in fairy tales. Sometimes you just have bad luck, and other times you make your own luck. It wasn't like she was the only person to whom bad things happened. There was a lot of suffering in the world. Still, it always felt like she got more than her fair share of grief.

There were the unexplained fires that sprang up around her. The accident rate at any company where she worked would soar until she was laid-off or fired, and then it would level off again. Her last boyfriend had turned out to be a drug dealer and had fled with all of her money only to be killed in a shootout with the police. The final straw had been her father's death. Although choking on a chicken wing could hardly be called her fault, she still blamed herself.

Her shrink had called it a persecution complex, and had prescribed fistfuls of pills for her, but she knew better. She had angered some jealous god, or had tempted fate once too often, and now the universe was making an example of her. The worst of it was that the bad things never happened to her directly, only people and places she cared about. She would be fine if she didn't let anyone get too close. It was a lonely way to live, but it was better than the alternative.

When her father had died, there had been nothing left to tie her to Phoenix, so she had closed her eyes, stuck her finger down on a map, and moved here to start over. And her life had been better since she had taken that leap. She had her own apartment, even if it was small and not in the best neighborhood. Hope had a new job working in a bookstore which, she had to admit, was a dream come true. She loved to read and spent almost all of her free time with her nose in a book. It didn't matter much which book it was. She loved them all, from biographies to fantasy, even a cheesy romance now and then. It seemed that her life was finally turning around.

It had been months since any major disaster had befallen her, and she was beginning to believe the worst was over. She'd even thought about dating again, though she had yet to meet anyone who fit the bill. Years of anxiety had made her a solitary hermit, and meeting new people was hard enough when you didn't have to worry about the other person being hit by lightning or discovering a serious allergy they never knew they had.

Still, she decided it was worth the risk. Since she had the next couple of days off work, she decided a little shopping was just what she needed to lift her spirits. Anything was better than sitting around her apartment moping. Today she felt lucky. Maybe she would meet somebody new. Maybe this time things would be different.

## Sam

Sam pulled up in front of the store and parked in the loading zone. He stood on the sidewalk, pulled off his sunglasses, and looked up and down the street. He hated this part of town. It was home to all the low-rent scum that made decent people afraid to go out at night. He wished they could just bulldoze the entire neighborhood – the buildings, the people, all of it.

He tucked his sunglasses into his shirt pocket and went inside. The owner knelt on the floor, scrubbing dried blood from the linoleum tiles. Scraps of police tape still hung from the worn display racks, and the pungent smell of bleach stung Sam's nose. He walked up and stood over Wu, his arms folded in front of him. "You missed a spot."

Wu glanced up long enough to see the badge hanging on Sam's belt before returning to his cleaning. "What do you want? I've already lost a day's worth of sales thanks to you cops shutting down my store. That's more than I would have lost to that stupid punk."

"I'm not the complaint department," said Sam. "I just need some information."

"Next time I'll just give him the money," said Wu. "Save myself the trouble."

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. After fishing through the files, he brought up the picture of the unidentified customer and held it up in front of Wu's face. "This guy was here yesterday. You know him?"

Wu looked at the face in the photo. "Yeah, that's the lottery guy. He comes in here sometimes. I don't know his name, but he must live nearby."

"Lottery guy?" asked Sam.

"He does this magic trick where I sell him a scratch ticket, he wins back the price of the ticket. Every time just the price of the ticket but no more. If I could do that I'd pick a real winner and close this dump. Too much crime in this neighborhood now."

"Did he ever use a credit card?"

"No, most people around here pay with cash," answered Wu. "Which is fine by me. Then again, maybe if they started paying with plastic, I wouldn't get robbed all the time." He dropped the scrub brush in the bucket of water and stood up. "Or maybe if you did your job and stopped bothering me."

"If you see him, tell him I need to speak with him." Sam thumbed through his wallet and pulled out a business card.

Mr. Wu stuffed the card in his pocket without looking at it. "Fine, fine. But if you're not going to buy something, get out of my store. I've seen enough cops to last me a lifetime."

"Well, that's gratitude for you," Sam mumbled as he walked out.

He'd be damned if he was going to chase all over town for some deadbeat magician just to tell him what he already knew. It was already late afternoon, so he decided to just head back to the station and close this case. If the guy turned up, he could always amend the report later.

Sam got back in his car and pulled out into traffic. He had not gone half a block when all the gauges dropped off to zero and the chatter on the radio went silent. As the car drifted to a stop, he cursed his luck and slammed his fist on the steering wheel. He decided it was probably a loose battery connection. It was an easy fix, but it was still an annoyance, one he could have done without today.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, trying to get a grip on his temper. When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to see the very man he had been searching for running across the street. Momentarily stunned by the sudden appearance, all he could do was watch as the man looked right at him before he bolted across the street to the sidewalk on the other side.

"What the hell," Sam muttered. As suddenly as it had stopped, radio sparked to life, snapping him back to his senses. An irritated horn sounded behind him, so he turned the key and tried the engine. It started instantly, as if there was never anything wrong with it.

Turning the car around, he went to follow this mystery man. Sam was curious as to why this character seemed to be in such a hurry. He parked in front of a hydrant down the block and waited for the guy to come to him. His gut told him that there was something strange going on, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

## Jacob

To the casual observer, she was not a great beauty. She was small and thin, with a close-cropped pixie cut of raven hair that made her look boyish. But she had a smile so wide it would swallow you whole, and eyes so rich and deep you could get lost in them forever.

He had seen her many times around the neighborhood in the past few months, and for some reason he couldn't get her out of his head. All the women that he had dated in his life had been dreadfully boring, as if he were a magnet for mediocrity. He didn't know if it was in the way she held herself or how she dressed, but he could feel in his bones that this woman was different. Jacob had never been one to believe in love at first sight, yet he felt drawn to her.

She would pop up here and there, as if fate were teasing him, but for one reason or another, he could never get close enough to strike up a conversation. Something always came up or someone got in his way. Today would be the day that he would change that.

When he had recognized her coming out of a shop down the block, he leapt into action. He was determined that she would not get away this time. Before he realized what he was doing, he ran out into the street. He took a second to appreciate his good luck for the stalled car that was blocking the road before rushing to the other side. Jacob had been so absorbed in the chase, he hadn't even checked to see if it was safe to cross. He wasn't usually one to act so impulsively, but she seemed to bring that out in him. He decided that it was another thing about her that he liked so much.

For a moment he thought he had lost her, but then he caught a glimpse of his dream girl as she turned a corner. He hurried after her, dodging the late afternoon shoppers and as best he could. He was close now, closer than he had been for a long time.

It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know what he would say to her when he finally did catch her. That he'd been chasing after her for weeks? If he was lucky, she would just blind him with pepper spray and run. Still he wasn't stopping, even if his better judgment said he should just leave this woman alone. He would think of something. At this point, it was almost a challenge just to meet her.

The afternoon rush hour crowd thickened as he went after her, and he started falling behind. He saw a gap near the curb and made up some ground. He was beginning to think that he might actually catch up to her this time when his progress was brought to a sudden halt by a strange man in a clean white shirt. He stood directly in his path and would not budge. "Excuse me," said Jacob. "I'm in a hurry."

Still the man didn't move. Instead he pulled out a badge from his belt and announced, "I'm Detective Dregg. I need to talk to you about a robbery that happened yesterday evening."

Jacob, realizing this man would not easily be gotten rid of, gave up the chase. She had already disappeared behind the dozens of bobbing heads. He would have to try again another day.

"Am I interrupting something?" asked Dregg.

"No," said Jacob. "I guess it doesn't matter now. What was this about a robbery?"

"First things first. Can I get your name and address."

"Sure, no problem."

The detective grunted a thanks and copied the information before continuing. "Last night you went to Wu's Grocery on Fifth. What do you remember about going to the store?"

"Well, I went to get some milk, picked up some snacks, paid for them and left. That's about it."

"Was there anyone else there?" the cop asked. "Could you describe them?"

"Let me think. There was a teenager there looking through the magazines," said Jacob. "Latino, dark green hoodie, wannabe mustache. Say, he's not the one who did it, is he? Man, I walked right past that kid. I had no idea. I never saw him do anything."

"Could you identify him if you saw him again?"

"Yeah, sure," said Jacob. "I mean I guess so. You're not going to need me to go to court or anything are you? I don't want any trouble with the gangs, and I can't afford to miss work. Besides everything should be on video."

"That probably won't be necessary," said Dregg. He closed his notebook and stuffed it back in his pocket. "But there is one more thing. Why did you go back?"

"Go back?" asked Jacob. "Oh, yeah. That's right. Some kids had tagged his store again. I just stuck my head in to let him know."

"And that's it," said Dregg. "You didn't see anything else."

"No. Nothing worth mentioning. Say, is Mr. Wu all right? I mean, he didn't get killed or anything?"

"No, he's fine. Crabby as ever." Dregg pulled out a card and handed it to Jacob. "Anyways, if you think of anything else that might be important, you can contact me at this number."

"All right. I'll do that." With that, Jacob stuck the card in his pocket and walked away. He turned his mind back to finding his mystery woman. He was sure that she couldn't have gotten very far, and he might be able to pick up her trail again. But somehow he doubted that he would.

## Sam

Sam had spent the better part of his morning looking for any information on Jacob Cutter and had come up empty. It was like someone had created him out of thin air a few years ago. Before that, there was nothing. There were no arrests or complaints filed against him, not even a parking ticket. He paid his bills, paid his taxes, and never got into trouble. Average height, average build, average looks – he was too good to be true, and it gave Sam a knot in his stomach.

He would have been willing to let one strange occurrence pass without more that a second glance, but he had seen two unexplained events happen in as many days. First there was the robbery and then the conveniently stalling car, and each time Jacob Cutter was at the center of it. Add in a spotless record, and it was too much of a coincidence. He couldn't rest until he had figured this guy out.

Sam clocked out early and headed back to the neighborhood and the address he had gotten the day before. Parking down the block from Cutter's apartment, Sam waited for him to come home from work. It was only a half-hour later that Cutter got off the bus and headed home. Picking his camera up off of the passenger seat, Sam snapped a couple of quick shots before Cutter disappeared into his building.

Sam knew that he might have to move quickly, or he might sit there for hours with nothing happening. Experience had taught him that it was usually the latter, so he unwrapped the sandwich he had brought with him and settled in for a long wait.

Fortunately, Cutter had opted for a night out saving Sam from a long night of boredom. It was only an hour later that a freshly showered Cutter came out of the apartment block and headed toward the diner down the street. But instead of going in, he stopped and turned.

Cutter was walking toward a young woman with short black hair. Sam raised his camera and took a few more shots. He recognized her as the same girl that Cutter had been chasing the day before. His fascination with her was obvious, but he wondered how she felt about Cutter. If she was someone from his past that he was obsessing over, she might have some insight into his history. He would have to pay this girl a visit to see what she knew.

## Jacob

He didn't feel like cooking, so Jacob decided to go to the diner and see what the specials were. At least, that was what he told himself, but he knew what he really meant was that she might be there. He took a quick shower to rinse off the warehouse grime before managing to scrounge up a clean shirt and jeans. Grabbing his keys and wallet, he headed out the door.

Jacob felt a sudden stab of doubt and almost turned around. He chastised himself for being so uncharacteristically romantic. It was probably just the image of her in his head that he was attracted to. If he got to know her, she'd probably turn out to be just like everyone else. If he never talked to her, then she would always be the perfect woman, the one that got away. He wouldn't have to live with the disappointment that inevitably came when a girl he liked turned out to have the personality of vanilla pudding.

But the uncertainty passed as quickly as it had come, and he closed and locked the door behind him. Whatever the case may be, he knew he would not stop looking for her. Because there was always the chance that she was the one to fill the emptiness he always felt, that she could inspire him to become something better. Hell, she had already gotten him off the couch and outside, and he didn't even know her name.

Just as he was about to go into the diner, he chanced to turn his head in time to see her down the street, as if she had been summoned by his thoughts. It took him a moment to realize he wasn't imagining it. She had stopped in front of a store window next to the diner and was checking herself in the reflection. She was sporting a hat which would have been appropriate for a much older woman. It could have been a discarded Easter bonnet from one of the vintage stores that seemed to keep popping up everywhere, but somehow on her it was adorable.

Jacob worried for a moment that he was falling in love with a hipster. There was that word again – love. He had thought it without realizing. That was definitely what he felt, despite all his efforts to deny it. He started down the sidewalk toward her, wiping his sweaty palms on his pant legs so they wouldn't betray his nervousness.

The sudden concussion struck him from behind and knocked him sprawling into his mystery girl. They landed together on the sidewalk as bits of broken glass flew by like a swarm of biting insects. Stunned, he looked up and behind him. The diner where he would have been sitting was a smoldering ruin. The windows had been blown out and flames licked out of the empty cavities. A few people who had caught the worst of the blast were lying on the sidewalk. At least one of them was no longer moving.

If it hadn't been for that girl, he would have been inside when the diner had exploded. And then all at once he remembered that she was lying on the sidewalk, right in front of him. Jacob got up on his feet, leaned over her, and asked, "Are you all right?"

Stunned, she barely managed to answer, "I...I'm not hurt." She looked around at the gutted building and the injured people still struggling to get clear. Her face turned pale and she screamed. "No, no, no," she managed to say. The woman was breathing hard like she was on the verge of panic. "It's happening again." She scrambled to her feet and started running down the sidewalk as fast as she could. Jacob was just about to go after her when he felt a firm hand grip his shoulder, holding him back.

When Jacob turned, he recognized the man instantly. "You again!"

## Sam

Sam didn't know how, but this guy was somehow affecting the world around him. Maybe it was all some elaborate scheme, or maybe he had a power that science hasn't discovered yet. Whatever was happening, this guy was the key. It was time to get some answers.

"You're coming with me." The ambulance and fire crews would arrive soon, and Sam didn't want to get caught up in the whole cleanup and investigation. He had to get them away from here as quickly as he could. The man was still visibly shaken up and confused from the blast, so Sam grabbed Cutter's arm and pulled him staggering toward his car. He put Cutter in the passenger seat and then hurried around to the other side to get in himself.

Now that he had him, however, he was unsure what to do with him. He drove around randomly, trying to think of his next move. He needed to know how Cutter was doing this. Maybe he could learn to do it, too. Then nothing could stop him. Imagine a cop who couldn't get shot or stabbed. Hell, forget being a cop; with that kind of power at his disposal, he could be a god.

Sam looked over at this dock worker – this sad nobody. Cutter looked as though he was about to cry; he was so weak and helpless. Sam cuffed Cutter on the back of the head and yelled, "Snap out of it!" Momentarily angry at the blow, Cutter quickly decided against trying to wrangle with a cop and settled into a mute resignation.

Sam needed answers, and he needed them fast. "Every time something goes wrong in this neighborhood, there you are right in the center of it. There's no use trying to hide it. I'm on to you. You might as well come clean now."

Cutter, with a shocked look on his face, just stared at him for a few seconds. Finally, all of his questions came out at once. "Are you crazy? What are you talking about? Am I under arrest? I didn't do anything."

"I'm the one asking the questions here," Sam snapped back. It was obvious that this guy was either playing dumb or he really had no idea what was going on. Sam considered whether it was even possible to have that kind of power and not know it. He looked the man over. Cutter was as desperate as a wild animal caught in a trap. Somewhere in that working-class failure was the secret to untold power, yet he looked ready to jump out of the moving car. Sam wondered if he would somehow miraculously land in a pile of pillows. "What I don't know is how you're doing it. What are you? Were you born this way or are you a government experiment gone wrong?"

"You are crazy," said Cutter. "You're completely out of your mind."

"Am I? Look at yourself. You were standing in front of a building that exploded, and you don't have a mark on you. Not one single scratch. Plus the fact that you don't seen to exist before about five years ago. At least not in any database I can get access to. How do you explain that?" Sam waited for a response but Cutter just sat there mutely, looking confused and scared.

If he really doesn't know, this was going to take longer than Sam had hoped. He needed leverage on Cutter, a way to control him. Sam couldn't just threaten him. His ability to dodge trouble would make any effort in that direction futile. It was time to try a different tack. "Okay. This is how it's going to work. There's nothing I can do to you, at least nothing I can think of at the moment, but I know what you want more than anything. A certain petite brunette with close-cropped hair and a tragic fashion sense."

"How could you know...?" Cutter's voice trailed off as he realized that he had walked right into the trap. "I don't even know her name."

"It's my job to know things. So if you play along and do everything I tell you, I promise I will help you with your problem."

"What problem is that?" asked Cutter.

"You say you don't know her," he said. "I'm a cop. I can get her name, address, phone number. All you have to do is help me figure out how you manage to avoid trouble the way you do."

"And if I don't want your help?"

"Well, let's just say, as a cop, I know all the wrong people, and some of them owe me favors. I can make your life – and hers – very uncomfortable."

"Leave her out of this," Cutter pleaded. "She's got nothing to do with whatever the hell you think is going on."

"I think you're protesting a little too hard for that to be true," said Sam. "It's a rough neighborhood. It would be a shame if something happened to a pretty little thing like that."

"You bastard!"

"That's right. Grade A, choice cut, son-of-a-bitch. Now, do we have a deal or not?"

"It seems I don't have a choice."

"Oh, now that wasn't very enthusiastic. Let's try that again. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," Cutter answered flatly. "I'll do whatever you say."

"Good, I'm glad we have an understanding."

## Hope

Hope sat alone in the dark. She had fled back to her tiny apartment after the blast and had sat there for hours, crying. She blamed herself for the explosion. She had not set a bomb or even lit a match, but she knew that it was her fault. People were dead and burnt, and there was nothing she could do to help. She couldn't even give them an explanation. She didn't understand it herself.

A sudden knock on her door nearly made her jump out of her skin. "Go away!" she cried out.

"Police, miss. I need to speak to you."

She'd had many visits from the police before. They always came around in the aftermath of her disasters. They always asked the same questions and they always left without any good answers. But the one thing that was certain was that they would not leave until they had gone through their checklists and satisfied their bureaucratic masters. She decided that she might as well get it over with. With great effort, she got up from the couch and went over to unlock the door.

"Good evening, miss. I'm Detective Dregg with the thirteenth precinct," said the cop. When he noticed she had been crying, he added, "Is everything all right?"

"I'm sorry. It's been a bad day. I was nearly caught in that explosion at the diner a few blocks from here. I'm sure you know all about it."

"Yes. In fact, that's why I am here. As a witness I'll need a statement from you. Anything you can tell us will be helpful in our investigation."

"I didn't see anything though," she said. "I'm sorry where are my manners. Come in. Would you like something to drink? I could make some coffee or tea."

"No thank you, miss," he said before sitting on the couch. "So tell me exactly what you saw right before the explosion. What were you doing?"

Hope sat down on the far end of the couch and answered, "Nothing really. I was just shopping. I was admiring the hat I had just bought in my reflection in the store window. I turned to go and the next thing I know I'm lying on the sidewalk with some strange man practically on top of me. I didn't see anything else. I don't even know where my hat is."

The detective pulled up a photo on his phone. "Is this the man?"

"Yes, that's him. I've seen him around the neighborhood a few times, maybe. Did he have something to do with this?" In her heart she still knew that it was her fault, but if she could shift the blame to someone else, maybe she could at least get this nosy detective out of her home.

"No. I probably shouldn't tell you this but he's working with me. A sort of consultant. He's actually a very interesting individual. I just needed to see if your stories lined up. In fact, you may very well have saved his life. He was going into the diner when he noticed you and changed his mind. If he hadn't decided to talk to you, he might very well have died."

"Why would he want to talk to me?"

"I don't know," he said. "You'd have to ask him about that yourself. Maybe he was going to ask you to dinner." The man looked about her apartment in the way cops always did, taking in the details and hoping to catch something incriminating out in the open. His eyes stopped on the pile of tissues on the coffee table in front of him. "And after the explosion you can straight home."

"Yes," said Hope. She wished she had cleaned up a little before opening the door. "There was so much..." She felt sick just talking about it now. "Seeing all of those burned people was too much for me. I had to get away from there."

"Is there anyone who can confirm the time you got home – a husband or boyfriend?

"No," she answered, "it's just me. I only moved here a few months ago. I've barely unpacked."

"I see." Dregg stood up, seemingly satisfied with her answers. "Well, I should be going. I still have a lot of people to talk to. Thank you for your time."

"Wait," she said, following after him. "If it wasn't him, what did cause the explosion?"

"Oh that. They're still picking through the rubble, but most likely it was a faulty gas line. The kitchen had been cited for health and safety issues several times. It was just bad luck that it happened when it did."

Bad luck was a phrase she had heard so often, it had lost its meaning. She knew she was to blame, even if she didn't know why. "Thank you, Detective. Uh...Dregg, was it?" She walked him to the door and held it open for him.

"Yes, here's my card. If you think of anything else you can call and let me know. Good day, miss."

As she locked the door behind him, she couldn't help feeling that interview was strange, even by her standards. At least it looked as though, as far as the police were concerned, she was in the clear. Her thoughts drifted back to the man in the picture. An "interesting individual" the cop had called him. She wondered who he was, and why was he so desperate to talk to her.

## Jacob

When Dregg had finally let him out in front of his apartment, Jacob went straight home. He'd thought about reporting the cop to his superiors and even went as far as to dial the number twice, but each time his anxiety overcame his anger. A man like that would find a way to strike out at him, even if he was locked away. Plus there was the feeling in his gut that there might be some truth to what the cop was saying, however crazy it sounded. For now, he would just have to play along and see where Dregg took him.

He didn't have to wait long. The next day, Dregg arrived and demanded that Jacob get dressed and come with him. He had planned to spend his Saturday getting caught up on his television shows, but instead a real-life drama had turned up on his doorstep. Jacob had lived his entire life without anything bad happening to him, and then in the space of three days, he had just missed getting caught in the middle of a holdup, had nearly been killed in an explosion, and had been extorted by a psychotic cop. He tried to think back to the moment when things had suddenly gone wrong, but the effort just gave him a headache.

Now he was sitting in a car with that same lunatic again, driving off to who knows where. To make things worse, his abductor seemed to believe Jacob was someone or something he's not. He didn't want to think about what would happen to him when the truth came out that he was nothing special.

That was if he made it out of this car alive. The way this man drove he would be lucky if he didn't wind up as somebody's hood ornament. Dregg went through red lights and weaved around traffic with an almost reckless abandon. It was as though he had nothing to lose, and he didn't care who he took down with him.

"I don't know exactly how it works or why," said Dregg, "but I've seen it with my own eyes and that's all the proof I need. Maybe you have an overzealous guardian angel. I don't know – but it works!"

"I keep telling you – what you're saying is impossible."

"I've seen it happen three times. You should be dead but you're sitting here talking to me. You're bulletproof."

"Okay," said Jacob. "If what you're saying is true, then how did I end up in the middle of a robbery to begin with?"

"I think whatever it is just does enough to keep you from getting hurt. It doesn't control your life or affect other people. Like when you ran out in traffic. It didn't stop you from doing it. It just stalled my car so you wouldn't wind up getting hit."

"But that makes it even harder to believe. Now you're saying it's not just reacting, but it can predict the future." If Dregg believed in psychic powers, then he was a lost cause.

"Not necessarily. There were a few seconds between when you decided to cross the street and you actually stepping out in front of my car. That was more than enough time to stop me. Also, it could work on probabilities. It could have stalled my car and then you could have changed your mind and crossed at the corner. I would have just seen my car stall for no reason and I wouldn't have thought it was anything more than engine trouble."

Jacob was getting frustrated. Like any good conspiracy nut, Dregg seemed to have an answer to everything. "If what you're saying is true then why the explosion? And how did you kidnap me? Answer me that."

"That diner was a time bomb waiting to go off. You were standing next to an exploding gas main and you didn't get so much as a paper cut. A lot of people weren't so lucky. As for kidnapping you, I've done no such thing. You agreed to come with me in exchange for my help. You may not like the circumstances, but you could always have said no."

Jacob took one last stab at Dregg. "But why would the building explode then. Why not wait an hour or two for when I'm not there."

Dregg suddenly became pensive and distant. "It's something about that girl that changes you..."

They had sat in virtual silence after that, driving around the neighborhood. When he asked exactly what he had planned, the only answer he could get was that they were waiting. Waiting for what Dregg wouldn't say. Perhaps he didn't know himself. Jacob only knew that when he did finally figure it out, things would not end well.

When the call came on the radio about a bank robbery, that was when Dregg seemed to come alive. He seemed determined to get there first or die trying. All Jacob could do was hang on for the ride and hope he was still alive at the end of it.

## Sam

He had Cutter right where he wanted him. Now it was time to put his plan into action. Sam knew he couldn't force answers out of Cutter, even if he had any to give. All he could do was put him in harm's way and let whatever magic was going on happen. Once he proved that the man's power was real, Cutter would beg him for his help. And of course, Sam would be there to take all the credit for saving the day.

When the call had come over the radio, Sam couldn't have been happier. A robbery was in-progress at the Second National Bank. He turned on his lights and siren and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. "Hang on," he said. "It's time to be a hero."

They were first to arrive on the scene, but Jacob could already hear the sirens of other approaching police cars. Dregg grabbed him by the collar and pushed him toward the bank door. "Now stay close and follow my lead."

"Wait a minute," said Cutter. "I'm not going into a bank that's in the middle of being robbed. That's it. I am out of here."

Sam pulled his gun and pointed it at Cutter's chest. "Do you want me to test my theory right now. If I'm right, the gun won't go off. But if you're right, you're dead."

"You're a cop. You're not going to kill me."

"Okay," he said and pointed the gun lower. "How about in the leg, then. I could always say you were working with the bank robber. You'll spend three years in jail before they figure out you're innocent."

"You would do that, wouldn't you?" Resigned, Cutter started walking toward the bank with Dregg's gun stuck in his back.

Sam pushed Cutter ahead of him through the bank's doorway. The few patrons unfortunate enough to be caught inside were lying on the floor. Somewhere a woman was sobbing. And in the center of it all was a small wiry man in his late forties with a bomb strapped to his chest. Sam had expected a gun, not explosives, but it was too late to back out now.

When the bomber spotted them, he started yelling in a panic. "Get down on the floor. Do it now."

Cutter started to comply but Sam pulled him back to his feet by his shirt collar. He was going to be the one giving orders here. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's not do anything crazy here." Holding up his hands so that the bomber could see, he bent down and put his gun on the floor before kicking it away. "Look I don't know why you're doing this but it's obviously not going how you planned. I think the best thing to do now is just to stop and give yourself up. The police are already here. You can hear them outside. They are never going to let you out of here, and if you set that thing off, we all die. Nobody wants that, so whatever the problem is, I'm sure we can work it out."

"Stop talking. You don't know. You couldn't."

"What don't I know?" Asked Sam. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name. What should I call you?"

"My name? You want to know my name? I standing here about to kill you and all these people and you want to know my name?"

"Yeah. I'm Sam. This is Jacob. Say hi, Jacob."

With a nervous wave he said, "Hey."

"Good boy. Now let me ask you Steve. Is this how you saw things going when you got up this morning?"

"My name's not Steve. It's...Larry. Don't call me Steve."

"Okay, Larry. What happened to you? What went wrong that you ended up here?"

"Why do you care? Nobody cared about me until I threatened to blow up a bank. Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know what you're trying to do? I just need the money. I can't pay my bills, and if I don't get some money, I'll be out in the street. Did you care when I lost my job? No, you just care because I've got this." He waved the detonator is his hand at Sam's face, daring him to make him use it.

Sam could see he was losing him, and the crowd was starting to panic at all this talk of blowing up. He had to end this now before he completely lost control. He started walking toward him with Cutter still in tow. "Look if you want to kill yourself, that's fine. No one will stop you, but you don't have to take all these people with you. Why don't you go jump under a bus? Or dive off a bridge?

"What?" Larry stammered.

Cutter, who had been nervous and unsettled, was approaching terrified. "You maniac. If you want to die, you can do it without me."

But Sam was adamant and kept a vice-like grip on Cutter's collar. He continued his steady advance toward the bomber, without a pause. "Did you even leave a note? Will they know why you died? Or will you just be some nutcase who blew up a bank and nobody knows why?" He was only a few steps away, almost close enough to grab him.

"Stay back! I'm warning you. I'll do it!"

"Then do it!" Sam yelled and lunged forward.

Sam's fist slammed into the bomber's nose, knocking him to the ground. The man instinctively brought his hands to his face to staunch the bleeding, but with a practiced efficiency, Sam had the man in handcuffs in seconds. He yanked at the wires and pulled the detonator clear of the explosives vest. Cutter was sprawled on the floor beside him. He was just staring at Sam, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Sam handed him the detonator and said, "Here's a souvenir for you."

"I think you broke my nose." Larry wore a splash of crimson blood from his brow all way down the front of his shirt to his lap.

"Shut up. You had your chance to come quietly." He stood up to address the crowd, holding up his badge. "All right everyone. I'm Detective Dregg. I want everyone to stand up, and in single file, walk – don't run – out the front door. The officers outside will assist you and, with any luck, get you home to your families before dinner time. Let's go. Stand up. Start walking."

He turned to Cutter and offered him his hand to pull him up off the floor. But he refused it and stood up on his own. "You go too," said Sam. "I'll find you again when I take care of this mess."

"Don't bother," he answered. "I don't need your kind of help." He tossed the detonator on the floor at Sam's feet and walked out the door.

It took hours to mop up the mess from the failed robbery, and Sam was nearly exhausted by the time he got back to the precinct. Despite all that he'd been through, he still felt elated. It might have been the adrenaline, but he liked to think that it was because he'd been proved right about Cutter. He was just about to head out for a celebratory drink when he got word that his lieutenant wanted to see him in his office. At first he thought that she just wanted to congratulate him on the bust, but when he saw her face he knew something was wrong. "Come in," she said, "and close the door behind you."

## Hope

Hope was glad to finally get out of her crummy apartment. It had been almost a full day, she realized, since she had eaten anything solid. She hadn't had the chance to go shopping, so she had sucked up her courage and headed out. The diner was in ruins, so she wandered around until she found a little bistro, which despite it being a warm spring evening, was nearly deserted. She ordered soup and a sandwich, and took a seat on the patio.

She sat there just enjoying the tastes and smells of her meal, glad to think about anything besides her own problems for a change. A shadow crossed her table just as Hope was starting to relax. She looked up to see the cop from yesterday. He had an odd look on his face that she couldn't quite place.

"Excuse me, miss. I hope I'm not bothering you."

"No. I was just getting something to eat. What can I do for you?"

"That might take a little explaining," said Dregg. "I'm not sure you'll believe me but I've got a story to tell you. Do you mind if I sit down."

"All right. I'm a little intrigued. Please, join me, Detective."

He sat beside her. "I'm not a detective any more, so call me Sam."

"All right, Sam." Now that he was closer, she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"It's about that man I mentioned earlier, Jacob Cutter. It seems he's been trying to meet you for some time now."

"Yes," she said, leaning forward in her chair. "You mentioned something about that before."

"It turns out that he's rather sweet on you, but he's having trouble meeting you to tell you himself."

"Why, is he really shy or something?"

"It's more complicated than that. This is the part that's a little hard to believe, but I've read your file. I think if anyone can understand it's you."

"What do you mean I'm the only one who can understand?" she asked. "There's nothing special about me."

"I think we both know that's not true. I believe there are certain people in this world with unexplainable abilities."

"I don't even..."

"Don't worry," he interrupted. He leaned back in his chair and flashed her a wry smile. "I'm not here to bust you. I couldn't even if I wanted to. I'm just here because I was curious. You've had a very colorful past, but I think we both know what you've got is more than just bad luck."

Hope was silent. She didn't know where he was going with this, and she knew you never give a cop more than what he asks for.

"Do you want proof? I've got it. Your file's thick as a novel. You've left more bodies in your wake than your average serial killer. As for Cutter, I've seen a gun pointed at his head not go off. I've seen him run headlong into traffic and not get hurt. You were at the explosion at the diner, neither of you so much as broke a nail. And now he stopped a bank robbery because the explosives wouldn't go off."

"That's my bank." she said. "I saw it on the news. I was just there right before it happened."

"Yes, I'm not surprised," he said. "Wait. You were at the bank, the diner, when he crossed the street. You were always there except the first time."

"Where was that?"

"Wu's Grocery over on Maple Street."

"I work at the bookstore next door."

"Well that explains why these things are happening to him now. It's you."

Hope began to sob. "Yes, it's true. I know it sounds strange but I believe you. I've seen too many impossible things in my life, things that just shouldn't have happened. I don't have an explanation, maybe it's magic, maybe it's fate playing tricks. I've lost everything I've ever loved to it. I don't think I could go through that again even though it's the one thing I want more than anything. That's the universe's cruel joke on me."

"And on me too, it seems." Dregg laughed, but the sound was bitter and cruel. "This just confirms it. I had it all planned, you see? I use him to get ahead, maybe even figure out how he does it, and then I'd be set for life. There's nothing I couldn't have done with that kind of power; nobody would be able to touch me. But then you had to come along and fuck it all up."

Hope started to get up, but then she saw the pistol he had hidden underneath the table, pointed at her. She froze.

"The way I figure it, it was your fault I got kicked off the force. It was you who screwed up my plan. But I can fix it. I can get it all back. All I have to do is get rid of you. Get up."

Hope stood slowly, desperately looking for a way out. They were alone on the patio, so there was no one to help even if she dared to call out. The few people that she could see on the street were too far away to see what was happening. He led her away from the patio toward a car parked on the street. It seemed as though her bad luck had finally caught up with her.

Then suddenly it occurred to her – if any of what he was saying were true, there was a way out. Despite being petrified with fear, she imagined Dregg not as the raging maniac in front of her, but as the man of her dreams. In her panic, it was hard to concentrate, but she persisted. As he stuffed her in the seat and slammed the door, she closed her eyes and imagined their life together. They were married with two wonderful children. They lived in a dream mansion with its own pool and tennis courts. But above all, they were happy, so terribly happy that she felt her heart would burst.

When Dregg got in and slammed the other she opened her eyes again. She smiled. A man was running down the sidewalk toward them. It was Jacob.

## Jacob

After making his statement to the police about Dregg and the robbery, Jacob hadn't felt like going home. He had told them how Dregg had harassed him and threatened the girl, then forced him into the bank at gunpoint, all to prove his insane theory. They had assured him that they could make a criminal case. Dregg wouldn't be bothering either of them again.

As he marched down the street with his hands in his pockets, Jacob wondered if Dregg was right. Maybe there was something special about him. Weird things had been happening ever since he first saw that woman. Something was keeping the two of them apart. Call it fate or destiny – he couldn't deny the universe was conspiring against them.

But it couldn't all be up to the invisible forces of the universe could it? What about free will? He refused to believe that he was just a pawn on a giant chess board. He would make his own destiny from now on. And he was going to start with Hope.

He knew one thing for certain; he was crazy for that woman. Maybe it's because you always want what you can't have. He wanted a normal life where people have lunch and go to movies. And he wanted to share that life with her. More than anything.

It had been a warm spring night when he had started, but it was starting to look like it might rain. He quickened his pace and debated where he might go. If Dregg was looking to make trouble, he would likely be waiting for him at his apartment. Jacob decided to head out to a bar instead where he could have a couple of drinks and watch the game. Also there would be witnesses there should Dregg show up looking for a fight.

Jacob was only a couple of blocks away from one of his favorite haunts when he saw his dream girl. He smiled and started walking faster. Then he saw Dregg and stopped in his tracks. He seemed to be leading her to his car, and forcing her inside. Jacob ran toward them. When he was almost at the car, Dregg jumped back out, waving a gun at him. Jacob stopped and raised his hands.

"Just in time to say goodbye," said Dregg. "I'm taking her where she can't hurt anyone anymore. Especially me." The few people who were milling about on the streets ran off, taking cover.

"Let her go," said Jacob. "I'll do anything you want. Just don't hurt her."

"It's too late for that," said Dregg. "You had your chance. Now she has to pay the price. I'll deal with you later."

Jacob reached down slowly and took his phone out of his pocket. He held it up so Dregg could see it. "If you don't let her go, I'm going to call a real cop."

"Drop the phone, Cutter."

"No. Either you let us go or you shoot me, because I'm not letting you leave here with her.

"I said drop it!"

Jacob started to reach over with his other hand to dial, but before he got half way, Dregg pulled the trigger, and the pistol exploded in his hand. Shrapnel severed the thumb from his hand and struck him in the face and chest leaving deep gashes. He screamed in agony as he gripped the bloody stump on his hand to staunch the bleeding.

The woman saw her chance and climbed out of the car, running to Jacob on the sidewalk. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. "Thank you," she said. "You got here just in time. He was going to kill me.

"It's all right," said Jacob. "He's not going to hurt anyone anymore. With what he's done here, he's going to spend the rest of his life in prison." Jacob could hear sirens in the distance. One of the people from the street or watching from a window must have called for help.

Dregg had found a first aid kit in the trunk and had bound his hand in gauze. He glared at Jacob as if he were ready to beat him to death with his bare hands. He might have if a patrol car had not come around the corner just then. Still losing a lot of blood, and with no options left to him, Dregg slammed his good hand down on top his car in frustration before climbing in and driving off. The cops took off after him in pursuit.

The woman stood in front of Jacob now, her hands resting on his shoulders and his on her hips. This close he could see her long eyelashes flutter as she stared back at him. "I don't think we've ever been properly introduced," she said and smiled. "I'm Hope."

He smiled back at her. "I'm Jacob."

She threw her arms around his neck and drew his face to hers. His lips found hers, velvet and yielding. His hands found their way to her shoulders, slid down her arms and then across her back. He held her like he had been waiting for her for all his life. She felt soft and warm to his touch, better than anything he could remember. Remember. There was something important he had to remember. He felt himself slipping away. He was dizzy, he couldn't breathe, and he felt like he was falling...

When he opened his eyes, there was a strange woman standing in front of him. She had a concerned, almost panicked look to her. She was talking to him but what she was saying didn't make any sense.

"Are you all right. I thought you were going to pass out there for a minute."

"No, I'm fine thanks," he said. "I guess I'm just hungry. I don't remember the last time I ate anything."

"Are you sure you're okay. You seem different somehow."

This woman was starting to get weird. He tried to conjure up a good excuse to make a quick exit, but he couldn't think of a decent-sounding lie. "Thanks, but I've got to be going. Maybe I'll see you around."

"Jacob, you're starting to scare me."

"How do you know my name? Have we met before?"

"Jacob. It's me. Hope."

"Sorry. Doesn't ring any bells. Did we go to school together?"

She came toward him and took his head in her hands. "I don't know what happened but we can get through this together. We've been through too much to quit now."

Jacob pulled her hands away and stepped back to make some distance. He felt a little sad for what was obviously someone with mental problems, but he'd had just about enough of this crazy lady.

"Look, I've got to go. It was nice meeting you." He waved and turned around to walk away. It was starting to rain so he zipped up his jacket. His stomach was starting to rumble. Maybe he would stop by the diner or just make a quick run to Mr. Wu's.

From behind him he heard her calling out, "Why do these things keep happening to me?"

# Unscathed

## Sarah

Sarah stood admiring her newest sculpture. The mass of twisted metal loomed above her head, the piece's carefully molded shapes implying two human figures locked in a lover's embrace. She stared at it for several minutes, moving slowly around her open courtyard studio to see if a change in perspective would help inspire her. It didn't.

She dropped her gloves, apron, and welding helmet on the workbench. It had started off as a beautiful day, but now the sun was beating down on her, and it was too warm to be dressed up in all that heavy gear. She picked up a piece of plate steel about the size of a manhole cover. Holding it out at arm's length, she moved it back and forth to see if it would find a home in her creation. Sarah thought she found a spot where it fit in, but she quickly decided against it. She bent the steel over her thigh into a saddle shape and held it up again. Still, the answer eluded her.

Ever since she'd been twelve years old, she'd had this tremendous physical strength. It had been difficult to adjust to her new ability. Great strength did not mean she had control over the power in her body. Even now, the most commonplace tasks required finesse and complete concentration. But for a skinny, awkward girl who already had problems fitting in, it had been a painful lesson.

It had come on suddenly one morning. She had woken up to the usual buzzing of her alarm, but when she had hit the snooze button, she had nearly driven the clock through her nightstand. As she climbed out of bed she was surprised by how light her body felt, as though she were walking on the moon. She tried a small hop and nearly smashed her head against the ceiling. When she unplugged the clock to throw it away, she saw that she'd cracked the top of the nightstand like it had been hit by a sledgehammer. If she'd been trying, she might have put her fist right through the wood.

Of course, she told no one. When you're that age you already feel like enough of a freak of nature. Being quiet and artistic, she was already teased for being an outsider. If they knew she had the strength of a professional linebacker, there was no telling what they might do. Also, there were the stories of people being swept up in unmarked vans after showing signs of having unnatural abilities. She'd always thought it was just paranoia or someone promoting a bad TV show, but now the possibility seemed all too real. Governments would kill for the secret to building super soldiers. It was better to play it safe.

Her mother might have been sympathetic, but she would have insisted on taking her to a doctor. Sarah wasn't naive. She knew there was nothing that medicine could do to help her. Besides, Sarah didn't believe anything was wrong with her. Why would she want to be cured?

At first, she couldn't believe her luck. It was exactly the sort of thing she'd spent weeks praying for. She'd been bullied at school by a pack of girls led by a particularly nasty example of the species named Courtney. She'd had it out for Sarah since she'd caught her drawing a very unflattering caricature involving a donkey. But that morning Sarah was anxious to get to school. For once, she would teach a lesson to those girls who'd been bullying her.

Just thinking about what happened next still chilled her, even now. This time when the girls had knocked the books from her hands and pushed her, Sarah had pushed back, but she'd had the strength of four girls her size. In just a few seconds, she unleashed months of pent-up rage on her bullies. Three girls wound up in the hospital. Courtney got the worst of it with a concussion, a broken leg, and a bruised spleen. It wasn't a fight, it was a slaughter.

After that day, Sarah was shunned not only by the other students, but the faculty as well. By the way they acted, you would have thought she was a witch, and they were going to burn her at the stake. In truth, after what she had done, they were afraid of her. A bully they could understand, but no one knew what to make of her. Eventually her mother had been forced to enroll Sarah in a different school. Rumors followed her though, and she spent the rest of her school years as a pariah.

As she had grown older, Sarah had been forced into near seclusion out of necessity. She was just too dangerous to be around. One accidental flick of her wrist could send a normal person flying through a wall. She didn't want to be the cause of any more harm. That was how she had wound up living alone in the middle of a pile of junk.

She made her way toward the small bungalow that she called home. The house was nestled in between a furniture factory on the one side and a foundry, now closed, on the other. The building was the last remnant of when this area was farmland for as far as the eye could see. For some reason, it had never been knocked down, and now it was stuck in the middle of a failing industrial park at the edge of the city. What had once been a lawn was now a fenced compound full of scrap metal, some of which was welded into the sculptures that guarded the house like silent sentinels.

She carefully pulled open the screen door so as not to pull it off its hinges. In the kitchen all the traditional cupboards had been removed and replaced with a stainless steel counter, a cast-off from some failed restaurant, with open shelves underneath. As gingerly as she could she pulled a can of vegetable pasta soup off of the shelf and opened it. Emptying it into the cast iron pot on the stove, she dropped the can into a bin with a dozen others. She would make something with the tins later; she just hadn't decided what yet.

Sarah hummed to herself while her lunch warmed. When it was cooked, she took the entire pot over to her kitchen table, a massive affair of steel welded to heavy pipe. Smoothed, polished, and painted, the table seemed to have been molded from a single piece of metal. It weighed several hundred pounds and would need a forklift just to move it. The chairs around it were a match in both mass and aesthetics Indeed, all the furniture in the house looked as though it was built to survive a direct hit from a tornado, but the pieces managed to look stylish and personal at the same time. It was a tribute to her craftsmanship and her ingenuity.

While she ate, her thoughts turned to money, or rather her persistent lack of it. Being an artist satisfied the creative part of her, but it brought her little in the way of income. The bulk of her sales were corporate installations, but those were few and far between. If she didn't complete this commission on time, they might cancel, and she wouldn't have enough to pay the rent. A promise and a smile would do little to keep her from being evicted. She needed inspiration, and she needed it fast.

When she had finished eating, she stood up, careful not to send the chair flying. Rinsing out the pot at the kitchen sink, she carefully put it back in its place on the stove. On her way back outside she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the hall mirror. She was pretty enough, even covered in soot and grease as she was. She resisted the urge to wipe her face clean. This was who she was, and she had long ago come to terms with it. Besides, there was no one around but her to care what she looked like.

Sarah went outside and took another stab at her sculpture. She still couldn't find the missing piece that would make it complete. Nothing spoke to her as she searched the courtyard, so she shrugged and turned her back on her creation. It was time to get some new material, and that meant a trip to the scrapyard.

She climbed into her pick-up and started it up with the heavy toggle switch she had installed after breaking off the key in the ignition. The entire truck had been modified to accommodate her strength, including a reinforced floor, powerful springs under the pedals, and the steel steering wheel salvaged from an old tractor. The first time Sarah had gotten in a car to drive, she had put her foot through the floor when she had stepped on the brake. While pushing a car around like she was in The Flintstones had a certain comic appeal, ultimately it would have been too hard on her shoes, not to mention her feet.

She hated driving and avoided it except when she needed supplies that were too bulky to carry. Usually she would just walk when she needed to go somewhere. For her, traveling was only limited by the time it took. Walking or even running at top speed were as easy as breathing, and she never got tired. Not that there were many places where she could go. Even something as simple as a handshake could crush the bones in a man's hand. Most places either had too many people that she might accidentally bump into, or there were too many fragile objects around.

When she got to the scrapyard the pickings were slim. As always, Jim, the owner, was there to greet her. They had worked out an arrangement where Sarah could take anything she wanted as long as it wasn't too valuable, such as copper pipe. In return, she would give him a small cut of any pieces she sold. He said he liked to think of himself as a patron of the arts. Sarah was certain it was because he was still holding out the hope that she would sleep with him.

Sarah picked through the piles of scrap for an hour, but still nothing grabbed at her. She found some pipe and old metal shelving that might be made into something and set them aside, but otherwise the trip was turning out to be a bust. It looked like she would have to find something else to inspire her. She loaded the truck one or two pieces at a time so as not to give away her secret. Then, with the truck full, she waved goodbye to Jim before driving off.

She took the road that ran beside the river. The view was better and there was a lot less traffic. She had nearly reached the Midland bridge when her mind began to wander. The pipe would be good for her next project, but it wouldn't help her out today. There had to be something she had missed, something so simple and basic that she had overlooked it.

Sarah looked up at the road just in time to see a car drifting over the centerline and coming down the street toward her. Caught between the approaching car on one side and a guard rail on the other, she only had one choice. The metal in the floor of the truck groaned as she stomped on the brake, but the reinforcements held.

The other driver realized his mistake too late and steered away wildly at the last second. The car clipped Sarah's bumper on its way past, sending it into a wild spin. He slammed on his brakes but lost control, and the car skidded off the road and crashed through the barrier.

Sarah got out of the truck, ran to the rail, and peered over the edge. The car was perched halfway down to the river, temporarily pinned by a small tree. Recent spring rains had caused the river to swell, and it was running faster than usual. She needed to get the driver out of there now.

She slid down the muddy bank. The thick clay soil was slippery and she had a hard time keeping her balance even with her great strength. The front end and roof of the car were smashed, and the windows were shattered. The car must have rolled over on the way down. The driver was an Indian man, maybe in his early thirties. He was awake but seemed unable to move.

Sarah went up to the driver's side door. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," he said, "but I seem to be pinned in. I can't move my legs. Could you call for help?"

"I don't have a phone," she answered. How could she. At home, the rare times she called anyone, she used the speakerphone and dialed with a pencil because it would snap if she pressed too hard. Delicate electronics were not a part of her world.

"And my phone is history," he said, holding up the broken piece of plastic and glass. He tossed it away. "Which is just as well. Stupid GPS is what got me in this mess. I don't suppose you would mind going for help?"

"Of course, I..." She paused. Leaning, in she saw that one side of his shirt was soaked with blood. "I thought you said you weren't hurt."

"That?" he said, glancing down. "Oh, that's nothing." He pulled his jacket across to cover the wound. "It looks worse than it is."

"You've covered in blood, and you think it's nothing?"

"That's not what I'm worried about. I just don't want to end up in the river. I'm pretty sure I can't breathe underwater."

"You're pretty sure?" asked Sarah.

"Well, I haven't put it to the test yet, and I'd rather not start today, thank you very much." He laughed nervously at that. "Besides, I can't swim."

Sarah, caught off guard by his humor, smiled back. "So how does a grown man not learn how to..."

The tree that the car had been snagged on finally snapped and the car began sliding down toward the water. Sarah had to do something quick, or this man was going to drown. Just out of reach, one of the pipes from her truck was lying in the grass. The impact had knocked some of the pipes from the bed of the truck and sent them rolling across the road and down toward the river bank. She lunged at it and managed to grasp it despite her unsure footing. Using the pole to steady her feet, she crouched down and launched herself into the air.

She came down hard on the trunk of the car just as the front end hit the water. Using her strength and the momentum of the jump, she drove the pole through the back end of the car and deep into muddy soil of the riverbank. It was only a temporary fix, however. The fast current was already tugging hard at the car, trying to pull it free. Sarah climbed down to the side to find the man panicking and struggling to get free.

He was surprised by her sudden reappearance. "Get me out of here!" he shouted.

Sarah was torn. She could easily pull the man free, but it would mean revealing her secret. She didn't know who this guy was, but if she did nothing, he would die. She shouted back over the sound of the rushing water, "Can I trust you?"

He looked back with fear and a desperate pleading. "Help me, please!"

Sarah tore the twisted car door from its hinges with one tremendous pull and tossed it away. With her palm, she swatted the steering column, severing it at its base. Already knee-deep in water, she knew she had to move fast. She braced her feet against the frame of the car and grabbed what was left of the dashboard with both hands. Digging her fingers in for a better grip she started lifting the wreckage away from his legs. The twisted metal began to grind and squeal as she pulled it apart, until the strain caused it to fail with a loud crack.

As gently as she could she lifted him out of the seat and put him over her shoulder. She had barely gotten her feet out of the water when the car broke free and floated downstream. With so much damage, it filled with water and sank within seconds, bobbing up only once or twice before disappearing from view.

The riverbank was too steep and slippery to climb back up easily. With the man still cradled in her arms she made three giant leaps up the slope, landing gently on the road above. She quickly glanced around, but the street was deserted. No one had seen them. Now that they were safe, he began to struggle to get away.

"Put me down," he insisted.

As gently as she could she laid him down on the asphalt, but he immediately sprang to his feet.

"Don't move," she said. "You're hurt."

"No, I told you I'm fine."

Sarah began to suspect there was something more going on here. She grabbed his wrist. He struggled but her grip was stronger than handcuffs. She bent over to examine his stomach. His clothes were torn like he had been crushed and impaled but his skin was smooth and unbroken.

"You're not hurt, are you?" she said. "There's not a mark on you." Sarah spun him around to look at his back. Finally she let him go. "It seems I'm not the only one with a secret. How long have you been...special?"

He paused as if he was considering a plausible lie, but he realized he had been caught. There was no other rational explanation. "It happened six months ago, shortly after I moved here."

"From India?"

"No, from Cleveland. At first it was little things like paper cuts or shaving nicks. They would instantly disappear almost as fast as they happened. I didn't think much of it at the time. Then one day I accidentally knocked a pot of boiling water off of the stove. It should have scalded me badly, but I hardly even felt it. I was more annoyed at getting my pants wet. So I tried an experiment."

He bent down and picked up a jagged piece of plastic from the crash. As he dragged it across his open palm, Sarah watched in amazement as the wound sealed itself. Even the blood was re-absorbed. "Wow!" she said. "So you can't be hurt at all?"

"No. I feel injuries, but not what you'd call pain. I broke both my legs and probably my spine in the crash. But as you can see..." The blood from his clothes had vanished, although they remained tattered and full of holes. He held out his arms and turned about once in place before taking a bow. "You know, I'm actually glad this happened. It's good to have someone to talk to about this. I thought I was the only one. You know, that was – what did you call it? – special."

"I know what you mean. She had a sudden thought and smiled. "So you're not married then."

"Ah, no. I had a girlfriend in Cleveland but it didn't end well. That was one of the major reasons I moved here. That and I got a job at the Havers Gallery."

"You work there?" she asked. "I had one of my pieces on display there last year."

"Oh, you're an artist!" he said. "I mostly work in antiquities, but I'd love to see your work sometime."

"What about now. I live a few minutes from here. You can get cleaned up and call a cab. I might even be able to find something else for you to wear."

"There you go rescuing me again. Aren't you supposed to change into a cape and tights in a phone booth or something?"

She laughed. "No you're thinking of someone else. Besides, there aren't any phone booths around anymore. I'm Sarah, by the way", she said extending her hand. For the first time in a long while, she wasn't afraid of breaking someone's bones.

He shook her hand and answered, "I'm Mandeep. But everyone calls me Manny."

As they started walking back to her truck, Sarah couldn't help thinking that she'd finally found her inspiration. It really was true that there was someone out there for everyone. "So, tell me, Manny. Can you cook?"

# Unwound

## Brian

Tapping his fingers on the desk, Brian waited for the computer to upload. He could type at over two hundred words a minute, but he was still at the mercy of a painfully slow Internet connection. He took a sip of coffee and checked over the code one last time. Everything looked good. Finally, the page loaded, and he did a quick test before knocking off work for the day.

He decided to watch a movie and switched the display to the wall screen. Opening the movie directory, he searched for something with a lot of action, preferably one he hadn't seen yet. The opening credits came up on the screen. He set the playback speed at two-hundred-fifty percent. At that rate the movie would last forty-seven minutes. Forty-seven minutes of his life. He hoped it was worth it.

It wasn't. After nine minutes, he gave up on the weak plot and shallow characters. His time was too precious to waste on such drivel. Nine whole minutes gone forever, but he wouldn't waste another by regretting his choice. Brian shut the television off. He wasn't in the mood to watch anything else now. Even if it was good, he knew he still wouldn't enjoy it in his current mood.

He powered on his reader and went to the first unread story. It was a fantasy novel about a kingdom lost in time. It wasn't bad. He was actually enjoying himself. The last chapter snuck up on him before he knew it. He would have to check to see if she had written any more. Fifty-nine minutes, but worth it. It was always good to get out of your own head, at least for a little while.

It was getting late, and he was tired. He rubbed his eyes. Sleep was the last thing he wanted. It was the biggest thief of time there was. Brian needed every second he could squeeze out of life. In the back of his mind, the same worrying thought always drove him on. He knew his time was running out.

He could move two or even three times faster than the average person. The problem was that he couldn't turn it off. Even the simplest conversation was a test of his patience. Everyone talked with a slow drawl. In contrast, people thought he was rude and snippy. The rare times he had to interact with the outside world, he rarely let anyone finish a sentence.

Eventually, he had been forced into a solitary existence. Working freelance web design and other odd jobs paid the bills, and since he could work at three times the pace of his competition, his talent and speed allowed him to charge a premium rate. In another two or three years, he would have enough to retire. He planned to spend his remaining years relaxing in some tropical paradise, but nothing could buy him the one thing he wanted – more time.

He decided he would go for a run later. He liked to run. It was one of the few things that took his mind off of his problem. He could only go out at night, however. A man running down the street as fast as a speeding car would draw unwanted attention. Also, if he bumped into anyone, he might seriously injure both them and himself.

Three hours of sleep. That should be enough. He set the alarm to wake him in the middle of the night and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The wrinkles forming under his eyes bothered him. He looked good for a man of forty-five. Unfortunately, he was only thirty. He was an overclocked human being, and he was burning out too fast.

The doctors hadn't known what to make of him. They eventually had decided on a new form of progeria. Which meant they didn't know anything. True, he was not exactly forthcoming about some of the side effects of his condition, but if they didn't have a cure what was the point of telling them. All they could do was charge more money for tests that didn't help and waste even more of his time. That was the end of his visits to the doctors. He would just have to make the best of the time he was given, just like everyone else in the world.

He woke to the sound of his alarm. Still groggy, he slipped into his sweat pants and a clean t-shirt. After a few quick stretches, he was ready to go. He grabbed his keys and music player. No time to wait for the elevator. He bounded down the stairs.

Two floors down he caught the first whiff of smoke and the faint squeal of a warning alarm. His eyes began to water and he stifled a cough. There was no commotion so the fire must have just started. He sped down the hallway. Wisps of smoke fought their way out from under the door of the seventh apartment on the right. The smoke alarm blared from inside.

He banged on the door. When there was no response, he checked to make sure the door wasn't hot. He backed up to get a running start. Charging forward, he slammed his shoulder into the wood. Pain shot through his side as it refused to give. He rubbed his arm to soothe the ache as he approached the door to look at it. He had done more damage than he had realized. The frame was shattered and barely attached. With a solid kick, it swung open.

Thick, black clouds escaped into the hallway. Brian crouched underneath the smoke before darting inside. The layout was the same as his apartment, so even though he could barely see, he knew exactly where to go. There were two bedrooms. He went to the smaller, nearer one where he found two single beds. In each, there lay a girl, about ten years old. They were awake, but coughing and hacking from the smoke. He picked up the nearest one. Cradling her in his arms he ran back out into the hallway. He left her in the stairwell which was still relatively clear of smoke. In seconds, he had retrieved her sister. With both of them in relative safety, he went to look for their parents.

More smoke alarms were starting to go off as the black cloud spread through the building. People were starting to make their way out of their apartments now. Brian hurried back before the hallway became crowded. No one would notice him while they were fleeing for their lives.

In the second bedroom, he found the girls' parents. The mother had woken up but she was having trouble breathing. He helped her to her feet and led her outside. As they went out into the hallway, she struggled to break free. "My girls! I've got to..."

"They're already out. Go. I'll get your husband." He handed her off to an older man who was helping to get everyone off this floor of the building. Before she could thank him he was already gone. He found her husband still in bed, hardly breathing. The man was heavier than he was, but Brian was full of adrenaline. He managed to get him over his shoulder and into the living room before the effort was too much for him. Falling to his knees, his body was racked with coughing fits. The other man was lost in the thickening smoke.

Two sets of strong hands lifted him up and led him out into the hallway. The firefighters had arrived. Coming back to his senses, he shook them off. "I'm all right. Help him."

They loosened their grip slightly, but didn't stop, leading Brian toward the stairs. He began to protest and struggle, but they ignored him. As another firefighter emerged from the stairwell, he was handed off. The first two rushing back for the other man. Satisfied he couldn't do anymore to help, he let himself be led down the stairs and outside.

Thirty minutes later, the fire was out. People milled about, assessing the damage. Brian sat on the bench watching events unfold. They had offered him oxygen, but he didn't need it. One benefit of his condition was that he also healed quickly. His shoulder didn't even hurt anymore. Better to let them care for the people who needed it.

Brian was growing uncomfortable with the crowd, however. He didn't want to answer a lot of questions about why he was there and how he got that family out in time. Real heroes, he thought, don't do it for the praise. If he had learned anything from comic books, it was that.

He decided to come back later when the situation had quieted down. As he got up to leave, he saw a gurney being wheeled out the front doors. Someone had not survived the fire. Curious, Brian made his way over to where one of the firefighters was talking to a reporter.

"...an elderly woman was found dead and partially burned. Her apartment appears to be the point of origin. Probably from a candle or smoking in bed. We can't be sure yet... There were some other minor injuries. Most notably a family of four in the adjacent apartment are suffering from smoke inhalation and have been taken to the hospital for treatment. They should be all right though. That's all I have for now. Talk to me again in fifteen..."

It was good that family had gotten out without too much harm, he thought. Those girls have barely had any time on this planet at all. They deserve a full life. What bothered him was the old woman. Old woman...Brian didn't even know her name. If only he had been a little faster...

He stopped himself with that thought. In spite of the circumstances he almost chuckled at the absurdity of his own desires. The curse that had been haunting him for his entire adult life – had he just wished to make it worse? It was times like this that all the little problems didn't seem to matter.

Jasmine from someone's nearby garden pervaded the night air, a welcome change from the soot and burnt plastic smell that still clung to his clothes. Brian inhaled deeply and let himself relax. For the first time in a long time, he was happy just to be alive.

# Unimaginable

## Marcus

The second that Marcus Williams woke up he knew that something was different. His head was throbbing, and his eyes were so sore they were almost swollen shut. Dazzling colors strobed across his eyelids making it impossible to go back to sleep. He groaned and managed to grope his way to the bathroom.

The cold water brought him closer to full consciousness, but didn't help with the pounding in his skull. He opened the medicine cabinet and took two painkillers from the bottle there. It was then that he remembered he still had to go to work, so he took two more for good measure. By the time he had brushed, shaved, and combed, he looked almost presentable. It would have to do.

His eyes hurt less now, and he could focus better than before. He walked back to the bedroom to check the time. As he looked at the clock, the numbers suddenly began to glow brighter and below them appeared a single word.

SYNC

It only lasted for a second. Marcus blinked and shook his head. Not sure what he was seeing, he stared at the clock, but the strange glow didn't reappear. Remembering that he was going to be late for work, he shrugged it off as the after effects of another long night playing video games, and went to get dressed.

Marcus nearly panicked when he couldn't find his keys. He'd already been late twice this week. If he was late today, his boss was going to write him up. He was about to call a cab when there was another flash of light from the corner of his eye, just like the one he had seen with the clock. He turned and saw his keys which had fallen behind the picture frame on the hall table. Grateful to finally be on his way, he decided analyzing what was happening to his vision would have to wait. With any luck, it would clear up on its own. He was pulling on his tie as he walked out the door.

Even though traffic was light, he still pulled into the parking garage five minutes late. He began his ritual of trying to sneak into the office without being seen – head up the back stairs and come out by the washrooms. If anyone saw him coming to his desk late, he could always say he was just taking a leak. That was unless Bruce was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for him. Which he was.

"That's three times this week, Williams. I'm going to have to write you up."

His boss was proof of the axiom that you rise to the level of your incompetence. How someone could get a job managing an office with absolutely no compassion or social skills was beyond him. In his mind Marcus could see Bruce scratching one more item off his to-do list. Piss on Marcus. Check. He imagined giving his boss the finger to even out the score.

"Sorry I'm late, but..."

"I don't have time now. I'll have to deal with you later." He started to walk away but turned and added, "You look like crap, by the way. When was the last time you got some sleep?"

"I'm all right. I just need some coffee."

"Just get your ass moving."

Marcus was in no rush now, and he was certainly not in the mood to work. They could fire him if they wanted, but he wasn't doing anything until he'd had some coffee. When he got to the break room all that was left in the pot was a trickle of warm sludge. Resigned, he rinsed out the pot and started a new brew. He stood inhaling the fumes, anticipating the rush of hot comfort that was soon to come. Mug in hand, he headed off to his desk.

"Late again, I see," said Neil, the occupant of the cubicle opposite to his.

"Bite me," he answered and regretted it. He sat at his computer and rested his head on his hands for a moment. "Sorry. I'm having a really horrible day."

"Then I guess this is a bad time to tell you the Cooper-Smith file is due by five o'clock."

"Crap. Is that today?"

"Yup. Better get started," said Neil before hiding away behind the partition.

Marcus groaned. He had a lot of work ahead of him, and precious little time to do it. He decided it was best just to plow forward and get what he could done. He opened the spreadsheets and started plugging in the numbers. After half an hour, he was ready to give up. It would never get done at this rate.

Suddenly, his head began to swim with facts and figures. On the screen boxes would highlight and shift around forming themselves into rows and columns. Marcus looked down at the keyboard and realized he was the one making this happen. He stopped, pulling his hands away. His heart was pounding in his chest and he was having trouble getting enough air.

Before his eyes, hovering in the air like a heads-up display, words appeared for a second before fading away.

PATTERN RECOGNITION ACTIVATED

Every single item in the room began to glow in sequence outward from his center of vision. Each item had an accompanying name tag attached to it in the same incorporeal text.

KEYBOARD

MONITOR

MUG

DESK

PEN

STAPLER

It went on and on, increasing in frequency, until it looked like paparazzi flashbulbs going off in his face. He stood up and started toward the washroom.

CHAIR

CARPET

FLUORESCENT LIGHT FIXTURE

DRYWALL

ELECTRICAL OUTLET

CLOCK

The flashing lights and floating words were making him feel nauseated.

DOOR

SINK

MIRROR

TOILET

He knelt over the bowl, but there was nothing in his stomach except the coffee he had just drunk. After a minute or two, the lights and words faded, and he began to feel better. He sat in the stall for a few minutes, trying to get a handle on what had just happened.

Marcus took out his phone and started searching for his symptoms online, but there was no checkbox for what he was experiencing. He supposed that seeing things that weren't there was technically a hallucination, but that definition didn't feel right. There was more to it than that. There was synesthesia, where your brain gets cross-wired, but he was pretty sure you had to be born with that. And it didn't explain the words he saw.

Thinking back, he tried to remember when this had started. It had been right after he had drunk that coffee. But that had been a fresh pot; he had made it himself. It would have to be in the coffee grounds then if it was a drug, and everyone would be getting sick. Plus there had been that weirdness this morning that had made him late to begin with.

Marcus stood up and went to the sink. He felt better after rinsing out his mouth. In fact, he had never felt better in his life. His headache and nausea were gone. Even his joints seemed less stiff, as if he had hopped ten years back in time. A few minutes ago, he had been ready to go to a doctor, but now it seemed like a waste of time.

He started walking back toward his desk. As he turned the corner of the row of cubicles, he happened to look down at the floor.

PAPERCLIP

Whatever was happening wasn't over yet. He was less panicked this time, though. In fact, he was starting to get used to it. He looked down again, but the glow and word didn't repeat. Now his curiosity was sparked, as well. Were there rules to this hallucination? He pulled his wallet from his pocket and received the now familiar word and glow.

WALLET

He returned it to his pocket and counted to ten. He pulled out the wallet again, but this time nothing happened. Opening his wallet, he pulled out his credit card.

CREDIT CARD

He put the card away and pulled it out once more. Again, there was nothing. It seemed that it only happened once for each item. Well that was some good news. There were a finite number of things in the world. This couldn't go on forever.

There was one last thing for him to try. At one end of the room was a bank of windows, the shades drawn to protect against the bright mid-morning sun. He approached them and opened one of the shades, bracing himself as best he could. Marcus squinted as the sunlight blinded him for a moment, but his eyes quickly adjusted. Again the glow and words lit up all the objects outside.

CAR

TRAFFIC LIGHT

ROAD

SIDEWALK

On and on it went. He found it was not as jarring if he just let it happen and stopped fighting against it. After a minute, it stopped again and the scene returned to normal. He closed the shade and stepped back to think about what he had just seen.

This was not like any drug he had ever heard of. Not that he had a lot of experience in that area. His drug of choice was a cold beer or maybe a shot of single malt. He needed time to think. He turned around and headed back toward his desk. Sitting down, he leaned forward and rested his head in his hands.

Mental illness wasn't a good fit either, though. He wasn't seeing dead relatives or bugs crawling on his skin. There were no voices telling him to kill his co-workers. The more he thought about it, the less he thought he was going crazy.

"Are you feeling all right?" asked Neil. "You were looking a little green a few minutes ago."

"I'm fine," he answered. "Must have been something I ate." Marcus dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Without another word, Neil rolled his chair back into his own cubicle.

_Okay_ , thought Marcus, _let's look at this logically and see if I can come up with any answers. Every time I see something new, it glows for a moment and I see the word that represents that object. But only once for each category of objects. It doesn't happen for each chair I see; only the first time that I see any chair. Now, when did this all start happening?_

Just below his center of vision, in that same glowing text appeared the numbers.

7:42 AM

Whoa! That's new. Now the creepy visions are answering me. What's two plus two?

4

_What's happening to me?_ There was no answer. _What's ten-thousand-three-hundred-sixty-two times four-hundred-ninety-one?_

5087742

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out his pocket calculator.

CALCULATOR

That one caught him by surprise and he almost dropped it. He punched the numbers in and verified the answer. "Holy shit," he said. "I'm Rain Man." His success with the calculator gave him another idea. He reached into his pants pocket and fished out all the change that was there, tossing the coins in a pile on his desk.

PENNY

NICKEL

DIME

QUARTER

Okay now how many coins are there?

13

How much are they worth?

$1.53

_What's the meaning of life?_ Again, there was no answer. _Damn,_ he thought. _I was kind of hoping it was forty-two._

His office phone rang. Startled by the sudden noise, Marcus almost fell out of his chair. Tentatively, he picked up the receiver. "Hello."

"Marcus!" bellowed his boss. "Someone said you were throwing up in the washroom. You were already late. Are you going to be leaving early, too?"

"No," he answered. "I'm fine now. Just something I ate, I guess."

"All right then. Get back to work." He hung up. Marcus would have to figure out what was happening to him later.

Right now, he needed to finish that report. He worked with surprising speed, the words and numbers just seemed to flow out of him and on to the screen. Occasionally he would see some line highlighted in red. At first, he thought it was part of the data, but then he realized it had the same weird glow as the other words and numbers he had been seeing all day. The only difference is the previous ones had all had a green tinge to them, and these were red.

He had finished the report in record time, so he went back and checked all the numbers again. With his new-found ability, it was a snap to cross-reference the entire budget within minutes. He did it twice to be sure. The numbers didn't add up. Someone was embezzling tens of thousands from the company and hiding it in the paperwork. It was all very clever. If it had been anyone else doing the budget, they probably would've missed it completely. He was suddenly grateful for all the weirdness that had happened to him today. What he thought was going to get him fired, might actually wind up saving his job.

He had to tell Bruce. He printed out the report and got up to retrieve the pages from the copier.

INITIALIZATION COMPLETE

In the blink of an eye, Marcus's entire world changed. It was as though everything around him suddenly had an extra layer of meaning attached to it. If he concentrated, he could pull out that information. He looked at the computer on his desk and the specifications started to appear. He looked at the sad little plant that lived in his cubicle. Marcus now knew its Latin name, the parts of the world where it grew, as well as care and feeding instructions. He'd been overwatering it. Everywhere he looked, he knew he could get access to all the intimate details of any object or person.

He glanced at Neil who was sitting opposite him. Even through the partition, he could see a dim outline of the man's body, working at his computer. On the ground, a pale blue ring was traced on the floor around him. Marcus looked down at his own feet. There was a ring around him as well but it was yellow.

He had played enough computer role-playing games to recognize what this was. The circles denoted what faction the characters belonged to: green were friendly; pale blue were neutral; red were enemies. He didn't know why his was yellow, but he could worry about that later. As he looked around the room, he saw dozens of pale blue circles and the vague outlines of everyone in the room as they went about in their business. If he thought he was in a video game, then crazy was definitely still on the menu.

He concentrated on Neil again. As he did the wall separating them seemed to vanish. He could see him clearly as if there were no barrier at all. Oh my god, he thought. It's my childhood dream come true! It's too bad there aren't any women on this floor. Now if it were Kellie from payroll...

"What'cha lookin' at, buddy?" said Neil. Lost in his wandering train of thought, he didn't notice that Neil had rolled his chair back from his desk and was now looking at him.

"What? Oh, nothing," he said. "I was just thinking of something. It's not important." Looking at Neil again, he realized what he had seen had been a near perfect simulation of what was going on behind the wall. He did not actually see through the wall, but the effect was just as dramatic and realistic.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah. I'm great," Marcus answered, a little too enthusiastically. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Uh huh," grunted Neil. He rolled his chair back and disappeared once more into his cubicle.

Marcus decided that he just needed to get through this day and then he would figure out what all this meant. He headed to the copier to get the report. When he had it in his hands, he went straight to Bruce's office.

Carol, Bruce's assistant, was there to greet him. Unlike her boss, she was the most pleasant and friendliest person Marcus had ever met. He didn't know how she had ended up working for such an asshole, but it was probably because everyone else had told Bruce to go fuck himself. She was like Mary Poppins; she was friends with everybody. Her circle was green.

"Hi Marcus," she said and smiled. "I was just going to call you. Bruce wants to see you right away."

"Thanks, Carol." Marcus knocked lightly on the door before going in. Bruce was talking on the phone, but motioned him to sit down. His circle was red. Marcus knew that Bruce had never liked him, but he didn't think of him as an enemy.

"That's fine, then," said Bruce into the phone. "We'll take care of it at the staff meeting on Monday." He hung up the phone and turned to Marcus.

"Now, before you say anything," Marcus interrupted, "there's something I need to show you. When I was preparing this report, I found some discrepancies that can only be the result of fraud. Someone is using this account to siphon money to a dummy corporation, which pays..."

"Where did you get this?" Bruce snatched the file away from his hand. "Hernandez was supposed to be working on this."

"He had appendicitis," said Marcus. "He's been gone since the day before yesterday. You told me I needed to pick up his slack."

Bruce seemed even angrier at him than usual. Then he understood. He had walked right into the lion's den and poked it with a stick. Of course someone was stealing from the company, and that someone was his boss. Or at least he was helping to cover it up for a generous cut. Marcus was never meant to see that report.

"It doesn't matter," said Bruce. "It's not your problem anymore. Upon reviewing your record, I've decided to terminate your contract with the company. I want you out of the building in five minutes. You're fired."

Marcus knew when he was defeated. It was just that he hated handing Bruce his own head on a platter. He stood up and looked Bruce square in the face. "Fine. If that's the way you want it. I'm outta here."

Bruce reached for the phone and dialed. Into the receiver, he said, "Can you send security up here to escort Marcus Williams out of the building. He no longer works here."

As he looked at Bruce's face, for what he hoped was the last time, he saw anger, but there was more than that. He didn't need some extra-sensory perception to show him that Bruce was afraid as well. That worried Marcus more than the anger. A bully like Bruce is at his most dangerous when he's afraid. He walked out the door without another word.

To Carol, he waved and said, "Goodbye, it was nice working with you."

"Oh, you're leaving us? How sad. Well, I hope you find something better. You're too good for this place, that's what I've always said."

"Thanks, Carol. For everything. You're an angel."

He was going to go back to his desk to gather his personal things, but he decided against it. The walk of shame was not worth an old pair of shoes, a half-dead ficus, and a bottle of aspirin. He had never been close to anyone in the office, so there was no one to say goodbye to. He just got in the elevator, rode down to the lobby and left the building.

As he drove out of the parking garage, he was more relieved than angry now. That kind of zombie existence would have been the death of him anyway. Finally, he was free from a job he had hated. He was also free from getting a paycheck, but that was something he would worry about later.

Besides, he had more important things to do, like figuring out where this new ability came from, how he could control it, and what he could do with it. The best approach, for the moment at least, was to continue living his life as if nothing had changed. He would go home and clean himself up. Tonight was bowling night with his friends. For now, he was just going to enjoy the moment.

Driving along the street, he watched the people as the went by. If he concentrated on them, he found he could extract information about them. He knew their names, addresses, even shoe sizes. Each one was a storehouse of information, and it was all available to him. It was as easy as if he was jacked in to the internet, with everyone's passwords at his fingertips. If he wanted to, he could have stolen those people's lives, and robbed them of every cent they had. But he knew he never would.

He'd had to work hard for everything in his life. From studying in school, to working full-time while he got his degree, to fighting his way up to the middle of the corporate ladder, it had always been a struggle. He didn't regret it at all, and he wasn't envious of those who'd had it easier. He thought that it built character. And all joking aside, just because you were invisible, you don't hang out in the women's locker room. That would still be creepy. In his heart, he was too much of a boy scout. A life as a criminal mastermind was off the table.

Bit by bit, he was beginning to realize what his power was. In the tech trades, they called it augmented reality. But you could only see the extra information through special glasses or a handheld device like a phone. He was getting it all piped directly into his brain. But there was more. He had access to data that would normally be heavily encrypted or buried in a mountain of data. He began to wonder if there were limits to his ability.

Coming home, he flopped down on the couch. He thought about Neil again, but he got nothing. He thought about Bruce and Kellie and a bunch of different people from the office, but again he got nothing. He was worried that whatever it was had worn off, but as he looked around he could still call up data on all the objects in the room.

He looked at the picture of his parents that was hanging on the wall. A flood of data began pouring into his vision – vital statistics, personal information, current location – telling him anything he could have wanted to know about them. He turned on the television and flipped through the channels. He had access to the intimate details of every face he saw on the screen. He switched the television off. It appeared as though as long as he could see them, or at least an image of them, he could mine through their entire history.

It wasn't getting him any closer to the answers that mattered, however. Like how he could do this, and why him and not someone else. He got up and went to the bathroom. He looked hard at his reflection in the mirror. He looked older than when he had stood there just this morning. Well it had been one hell of a day. Marcus felt lost and unsure of what to do next. He stared into his own eyes and asked, "So, what do I do now?"

In his vision an itinerary for the next few days appeared. There were a lot of blank spaces where his job used to be. That only reminded him that he was going to have to figure out a way to make some money soon. He called up his own banking information and saw that he only had three-hundred-fifty-three dollars and twelve cents in his chequing account. He wondered if he could make it change just by thinking about it. He concentrated, he squinted his eyes, he tensed every muscle in his body, but the numbers didn't budge. He would have to think of something else. This was giving him a headache.

He called up his calendar again. Marcus was supposed to meet his friends in a little over an hour. To say he didn't really feel like going was an understatement, but he felt even less like staying here and feeling sorry for himself. A few drinks to commiserate – scratch that – celebrate his firing. Maybe they would even have a line on something better than his last job, but he was beginning to suspect that there would be no going back to his old life. Too much had changed.

It was approaching twilight when Marcus found himself at the bowling alley. As usual, he was the last to arrive. He got his shoes and picked out a ball. His friends and he weren't part of a league or anything. They would just meet once a month to throw some balls and catch up on each other's lives. Marcus wished he could tell them everything that had happened to him today, but until he figured this out, it was best to keep it a secret. For once it was easy to find them in the crowd. Their circles were green.

"Well look who finally showed up!" said Daryl. "We were about to start without you."

"Don't get pissy," he answered. "You're all early. I'm just fashionable."

"For such a fashionable guy, you look awful. What happened to you?"

As they played, Marcus shared the story of his day. He gave a carefully edited version to avoid the crazy parts. It wasn't that they wouldn't be curious or sympathetic, it was just that he was in a place beyond human experience. He didn't have the words to explain it, and he seriously doubted anyone would believe him if he could. It was better just to revel in the companionship of his friends for an evening. It was the first normal thing to happen to him all day.

"Getting fired certainly hasn't helped your game," teased Jamal. "I was going to bet that I could beat you in the next game, but I don't take candy from babies."

"I don't need your pity," said Marcus. "I'll take that bet. Make it a hundred dollars."

"No, seriously," said Jamal. "You just got canned. You can't go and start wasting your money on stupid bets."

"I can, and I will," he answered.

"Fine. I'll take that bet, then."

"I want a piece of that," said Daryl.

"Me, too," chimed in his other friend, Ted.

"Good. I'll take you all on."

Marcus watched as the others went first. He was a little worried that he might have to pay out the majority of his savings on a dare. They would protest and try to refuse, but to Marcus a bet was a bet. He was no welsher. When it was his turn he took his ball and walked up to the alley. He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on his aim.

In his vision, he saw new instructions superimposed on the scene. There were glowing footprints on the floor showing him where to step. He knew the precise speed and timing of his upswing to throw the perfect ball. All that remained was to do it. He lined up his approach, let his arm swing back and threw the ball down the lane. It rolled off to the side and into the gutter. From behind him, he could hear his friends laughing.

"Maybe you should just pay up now," quipped Daryl. "Save whatever shred of dignity you have left."

Marcus just smiled and waved them off. He had everything he needed. It was just too distracting if he thought about it all at once. This time he would just try to relax and let it happen. He was just getting in his own way. He lined up for his shot. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He cleared his mind and just tried to feel what he should do, instead of thinking about it. He stepped forward and threw his arm back. The ball rolled in a perfect arc right into the pocket, knocking all the pins down.

From behind him, his friends shouted out jokes and gave up mocking applause. But that would soon change. By the fifth frame, he knew he could throw a strike every time. He had to start missing on purpose. Attention was the last thing he wanted at the moment. He managed to finish with a respectable two-hundred-thirty, sixty points higher than any one else.

"I'll have to stop by the bank," said Ted. "I didn't bring that much cash with me."

"Don't worry about it," Marcus answered. "It wasn't a fair bet. I've been practicing all month." In truth, he didn't want their money. It wasn't a fair competition. He knew he could bowl a perfect game nearly every time now. It would be the same as stealing. "How about you buy a round of drinks and we'll call it even."

They seemed pleased with the compromise. As the night wore on the group retired to the lounge and the talk turned back to Marcus's boss.

"You have to go to the cops," said Jamal. "You can't let him get away with that."

"And what do I tell them," he answered. "I don't have any evidence, but he's totally guilty, officer. They just dismiss me as an ex-employee with a grudge. Nothing's going to happen unless I can prove it."

"You're probably right," said Daryl.

"But I've never known you to give up without a fight," added Ted.

Daryl and Jamal nodded in agreement.

"What can I do though," said Marcus. "The evidence is probably already destroyed."

"It just doesn't seem fair," said Jamal. "And now you'll probably never hook-up with that hottie receptionist. What was her name?"

"Kellie," he answered. "And she's not a receptionist; she works in payroll." The mention of Kellie gave Marcus a new idea, or maybe it was the beer. "So on that sad note, I think I'll call it a night."

Marcus excused himself and said his farewells to his friends. A few minutes later, he was outside, alone in the fresh air of a warm spring evening. He remembered that he still had photos from the last office Christmas party on his phone. He was certain there was a picture of Kellie in one of them. It took him a few minutes but he found it.

He thought about her phone number and it appeared in his vision. He was going to call her but he realized it was late and she was probably in bed. A map appeared with a glowing spot on it. Next to it was an image of Kellie along with her name. It was only two blocks away. He started walking.

It was a small bar, a little upscale for his taste. There was a crowd but still room for a few more. He wondered how he was going to find her among all these people when an arrow appeared in his vision pointing to the right. As he turned, the arrow slowly aligned itself until it was pointing forwards. He looked across the room and finally saw her in the back, near the washrooms.

It would seem he might have a promising career in finding lost people. He wondered how you got a private investigator's license, and an application form appeared in his vision. He dismissed it. Not now, he thought. I've got more important things to do.

She was wearing a slinky, red cocktail dress, and had her hair down. In the office she always had her hair tied up in a bun, prompting a more than few naughty librarian fantasies in his head. This new look had its own charms though.

Marcus looked like he had just been bowling, and suddenly felt a little underdressed. He thought about what he should say. What would be a good icebreaker? Hi, I need your help to take down my former boss, but you might lose your job or worse? Marcus was beginning to wish he had thought this through a little more before going ahead. While he was lost in thought, Kellie turned and saw him standing there. She smiled and waved. Marcus turned to see who she was looking at, but there was no one behind him. When he turned back, she was already walking toward him. It was obvious that she was more than a little drunk.

"Well look who it is," she said. "The word around the office is you got the boot for punching Bruce in the face.

"You're half right. I got sacked, but I never hit Bruce. I wanted to, but he's not worth going to jail."

"Too bad. If anyone had it coming it would be that bastard."

"I won't argue with you on that point. Frankly, I'm glad to be out of there. Working for him was torture."

"True enough," she said. "I worked with him two years ago. Every time I had a meeting with him, he would just stare at my chest. What a creep. Let's agree never to speak of him again. Come on, I'll buy you a drink to celebrate your freedom."

She led him to the bar and ordered a drink for each of them. "So what are you going to do with all your free time now that you're unemployed?"

"I was thinking of becoming a superhero, you know, fighting crime and all that."

"Ha, you're funny! Why did nobody tell me you were funny. So you're just going to wander around waiting for someone to snatch a little old lady's purse?"

"Something like that," he answered. "In truth, I haven't given it much thought yet."

She waved at someone, but he couldn't see who it was. She leaned in close so Marcus could hear her over the music. She pointed to a blonde woman across the room. "My friend, Cynthia, has left me for some hockey player, it seems. It looks like you'll have to keep me company."

"I'll do my best," he said. This was turning out to be easier than he had hoped. He regretted not talking to her sooner. There was still the matter of Bruce to contend with, however, but from what he had heard, she might be the ally he needed to pull off his plan. "Let's find a quiet corner and talk."

They found a table where the noise wasn't too bad and they could hear themselves think. "It was actually because of Bruce that I wanted to talk to you."

"And I thought it was because of my pretty blue eyes," she said, her mouth twisting in a teasing pout.

Marcus turned a bright red. "I didn't...I mean...if I'd known..."

"Easy, tiger," she said. "You'll blow a gasket. Why don't you start from the beginning?"

Marcus caught his breath and took a swig of his beer before continuing. "Well, it's the reason I was fired. I found evidence that Bruce was embezzling from the company."

"If you have the evidence, why don't you take it to the police?" she asked.

"I accidentally gave all the evidence to Bruce."

"Well, that wasn't very smart," she said. The corners of her mouth slid into a mocking grin.

"Yeah," he answered. "It wasn't one of my finer moments. In my defense, I didn't know until just after I did it. It's kind of like when you leave your keys in your car and slam the door. There's this second when you realize what you've done, but you know that it's too late to stop it."

Kellie smiled and said, "I see. But that doesn't explain what you need me for."

"I only gave Bruce the final report. I can get access to the network, but most of the really incriminating stuff, the receipts and invoices, is only in hard copy. The problem is I can't get in the building. Security would stop me as soon as I walked in the door."

"You want me to go snooping through Bruce's files?" she asked. "I don't know about that. I'd certainly be happy if Bruce got the boot, but I'm not sure this is something I want to risk my job over."

"No, it was near the end of the day, so I don't think anyone got around to clearing off my desk. There's a good chance that it's all still sitting there waiting for someone to pick it up."

"And you want that someone to be me," she said.

"No one would look twice at someone from HR coming down to clear off a fired employee's desk. Then you slip out with the files on your lunch break and I'll take it from there. Easy as pie."

"I don't know," she said. "It seems like kind of a thin plan."

"I'm certain you can do it, but if you don't want to help I understand. I wouldn't want you to take a risk like that for me. I'm sorry I brought it up."

"I didn't say I wouldn't either," she said. "I just mean I'd have to think about it. I have responsibilities that I can't just ignore, like rent and food."

"I understand," he said. "Maybe if I ask Neil..."

"Neil couldn't find his own ass if you lit his pants on fire," she interrupted. They both laughed at that. "I'll tell you what – you let me sleep on it and I'll give you an answer tomorrow. I don't want to decide anything when I've been drinking."

"That's more than I could hope for. Thank you. But if you're going to do it, it has to be first thing tomorrow before anyone else gets there."

"Okay, I'll think about it," she said. "Now why don't you be a gentleman and take me home."

It had started to drizzle outside, making the warm spring night turn suddenly chilly. Marcus wished he'd had a coat to offer Kellie, but he had to settle for blocking the wind. "I'll have to call a cab. I left my car at home tonight."

"That's fine," she said. She clutched her arms across her chest to ward off the cold. "Just hurry it up. It's freezing out here."

"We can wait across the street, under that awning. The building will give us some cover." They hurried to the waiting shelter as Marcus called for a taxi. He saw a map of surrounding blocks in his vision. Several lights appeared, presumably taxis in the neighborhood. One started to flash with a message telling him it would arrive in four minutes. They stood awkwardly for a while until Marcus finally said, "I sure know how to show a girl a good time, don't I?"

"I've had worse," she replied, and they both laughed again.

Suddenly Marcus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. He turned around and, through the building, he could make out the outline of a red circle on the ground. It was coming toward them fast. He stopped laughing.

Noticing the change in his demeanor, she asked, "What is it? What's wrong?"

But it was already too late, a dark figure shrouded in a black hoodie walked up to them and waved a knife at Marcus. "You. You've been sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

"Whoa, just take it easy," said Kellie. "Nobody has to get hurt. We'll just give you our money..."

"I don't want your money. I came to deliver a message. Keep your mouth shut, or you'll regret it, understand?"

"Wait, I know you. You're Brandon Parrish. You work in security..."

"Shut up, bitch. Now I'm going to have to take care of both of you."

Marcus could feel the adrenaline pumping through his body, but he didn't feel panic or dread. He had a calm, almost serene reaction to this man's threat of violence. He could sense at the edge of his consciousness that a plan was coming together. Like earlier that evening in the bowling alley, instructions came to him on where to put his hands and feet, how much force to use, and when to move. With one foot he kicked off from the lamp post and grabbed the support beam of the awning. Using his momentum, he ran along the wall to build up more speed. He kicked off at the last instant and brought his foot square into Parrish's jaw. The big man was caught completely by surprise and fell to the sidewalk. He dropped the knife which slid under a parked car.

Right on time the taxi pulled up to the curb. Gathering a stunned Kellie to his side, he ushered her into the waiting cab. They pulled away leaving their attacker still reeling in pain. It had all taken just a few seconds.

"What just happened?" asked Kellie. "How did you do that?"

"I don't know. Something just came over me. But it's not important. We're safe now."

"I hardly think so," she said. "If Bruce thinks that I know about the money, I'm not safe anywhere."

"All the more reason to help me with my plan," he said. "If we can take Bruce down, the rest will follow."

"I have to admit it, I'm scared. Part of me just wants to get on a plane and get out of town."

"No one would blame you if you did," he said. "Least of all me."

"You didn't let me finish. The rest of me wants to nail his ass to the wall."

"Good," he said. "I'm glad you feel that way. You'll see. Everything will be all right."

"Why?" she said, curtly. "Because you'll be my superhero, there to protect me?"

"We'll look after each other."

She thought about that for a moment. Finally, she said, "I like the sound of that."

Marcus smiled to himself as her circle changed from blue to green.

# Unhealthy

## Celeste

It was a miracle. There was no other way to explain it. The cancer that had been ravaging her body was gone. It was not just in remission. It was utterly gone, like it had never existed. The scans showed that even the damaged tissue had been restored. She had been completely healed.

Celeste had never doubted that her prayers would be answered. She had kept at it all day and all night. Even now, her fingers caressed the crucifix dangling from a chain around her neck, its finish worn smooth by constant handling. To her, the power of prayer was real, and she had been rewarded for her unwavering faith. She would keep her vow, and spread the Word using her own body as proof of the divine.

She was ready to leave the hospital, but the doctors didn't want to release her yet. They didn't know how she could recover so quickly, and they wanted to study her. She didn't mind, though she knew their efforts were futile. You couldn't put God in a test tube. Even though they didn't have her faith, they were still good people, and she didn't want to fight with them. She would wait until He sent her a sign. He always knew what was best.

Celeste saw no reason why she shouldn't get dressed and go out, however, despite her doctor's warnings. Her clothes and purse were still in the closet where she had left them. She'd had no need for them for the past few weeks, but today she felt full of energy. If she didn't get out of this stuffy hospital room soon, even if it was only down the hall, she thought she might lose her mind.

Putting on her pants, she saw how much weight she had lost in the short time she had been here. She cinched her belt to the last hole, and it still felt loose around her narrow hips. It was the same for all her clothes. Even her shoes were loose on her feet. She had almost no fat left on her shriveled frame, so she put her worn bathrobe back on over top of her clothes. She thought that she must look like a mad hobo, but it was better than feeling cold all the time.

As she wandered down the hall, she couldn't help but feel bad for all the suffering people she saw. It's true that the hospital was a place for healing, but it was also a home for disease, pain, and death. Celeste wished she could do more to help all these people, but she knew that God had a plan for all His children. He would help those He found worthy, like He had helped her. She wondered what He had in store for her, to have saved her from her cancer. Only time would tell. It was not good to tempt Him by second-guessing His will.

She made her way to the chapel. Finding no one there, she knelt and prayed out loud thanking Him for her restored health, and for forgiveness for her sins. She had not been to service for some time. Her poor health had prevented her from leaving her bed for weeks. Although she had diligently watched Papa Bear Thornton preach on the television, it wasn't the same as actually being there. It would be her first stop after she left the hospital, but she couldn't wait to thank Him.

She stayed for an hour, until the rumbling of her stomach distracted her from her prayers. The chemo had destroyed her appetite, but now hunger had returned along with her health. She was suddenly starving and a little faint. She got up slowly so as not to pass out, and headed for the cafeteria.

The smell of even this mediocre fare was enough to make her nearly drool in anticipation. She got a tray and stepped into line, grabbing generous portions of nearly everything as she went down the line. A woman behind her gave her a funny glance as if to say, "That frail little woman's going to eat all that? I don't think so. She'll be lucky if she can lift it." Celeste didn't care. All she could think about was her empty stomach and her aching need to eat.

She began sampling even before she could sit down. It was as if she were trying to make up for weeks of deprivation in one meal. She had to consciously slow herself down, not because people were beginning to stare, but because she was afraid she might bite off her own tongue. She gorged herself until the plate was empty. Celeste thought about going back for more, but decided against it. She was only newly recovered and didn't want to make herself sick with too much food at once. Besides, gluttony was a sin.

She would, however, go back for dessert. It was just one treat to celebrate her recovery. She deserved that much. As long as it wasn't gelatin or pudding, she would be happy. She had seen enough of those to last a lifetime. After looking over the choices, a piece of apple pie was the best the cafeteria had to offer, so she went with that.

As she approached the cashier, Celeste couldn't help but notice the elderly woman was rubbing her hands as if she was in great pain. "You poor dear," Celeste cooed. "What's the matter?"

"It's just my arthritis," the cashier answered. "The pills help, but not always enough."

"I'm so sorry. I wish I could do something for you..." Her voice trailed off as Celeste had the uncontrollable urge to reach out and hold this woman's hands, like nothing else was more important in the entire world. To someone else the experience might have been frightening, but she recognized it for what it was. It was the sign she had been waiting for. She had been chosen!

"Stop it you're hurting me!" the cashier cried. She tried to pull away but Celeste kept a vice-like grip on her that belied her frail appearance. Across the room a beefy orderly got up from his seat to intervene. Everyone was looking at them now, and a hush fell over the room as people stopped their meals to watch.

Her eyes closed tightly, Celeste began to pray out loud. "May His power pass into you and relieve you of your burdens. May His love keep you and protect you from harm. May He watch over you all of your days and on into eternity. Amen." With the last shout, she released the woman's hands and stepped back.

The orderly towered over Celeste and put his body between the two women. "All right. I don't know what's going on here, but it stops now!"

Celeste was undeterred by the size of the man standing in front of her. Calm and relaxed, she smiled at him. She was chosen. She was His vessel. She was protected by His grace. "Don't worry," she said. "I will not harm anyone. I am here to help you and teach you of His love."

"Whatever you say, sister. Now let's see about getting you back to your room." He checked her wristband to find where she was supposed to be. Celeste didn't resist. She remained serene and compliant. A security guard for the hospital finally arrived, and the orderly led Celeste over to him. His grip on her arm was firm and implacable. "Make sure she gets back to her room and keep her there. We need to make sure she doesn't hurt anyone else."

The cashier sat huddled against the wall crying. Some of the medical staff had gathered around her, trying to help, but all she would say was, "My hands. My hands! She healed me. It's a miracle!

For two hours, Celeste stared out of the hospital window. A doctor, one she didn't know, had come in briefly to see if she needed any first aid after the incident at the cafeteria. Noting she was unhurt, he promptly left. She had been alone since then. Having time to reflect on what had happened, she could hardly believe her own good fortune. Of all the people in the world, it was she whom He had blessed with the gift. She would have to try to be worthy.

While she stood staring out the window, lost in her thoughts, two men entered the room unannounced, and the younger one locked the door behind him. It was obvious to Celeste who they were. They were almost the stereotype of federal agents, right down to their polished shoes. Both had the air of ex-military men, although the older one seemed softer and professional – another doctor perhaps. He was leafing through some papers, presumably a file on her.

"Ms. Celeste Green?" the older one asked. It seemed a rhetorical question. These men knew exactly who she was. She nodded. "We're here today because of a couple of extraordinary events that have occurred in the past few days. Events that seem to be centered around you."

She made no effort to reply. These men were not here to help her. They were merely an obstacle between her and the people who needed her help to see the Truth.

He continued, unabated, "Let's begin with the event that drew you to our attention. It says here that you died," he said as he flipped through the pages. "You had multiple organ failure as a complication of a metastasized liver cancer and were pronounced dead by the attending physician. In short, you should not be standing there. You should be in a box in the ground. How do you explain that?"

"God healed me," she answered, "that I might do His good works on this Earth."

The two men seemed entirely unsurprised by her answer, and continued as if she had just told them her favorite flavor of ice cream. "I see. Does God speak to you directly? Do you hear His voice?"

"He does not speak to me directly," she answered, "but He makes His will known to me through signs and the love I have in my heart for Him." Celeste continued to stare out the window, refusing to acknowledge the men any more than she had to.

"And the woman in the cafeteria, what about her? Why did you attack her?"

"I helped her to see His light. I eased the suffering in her body, just as He eases the suffering in our souls."

"I've heard enough," said the younger one. "It's obvious we have a class seven regenerist with messianic delusions. I say we bag her now and take her back to the Barn."

"We're not just here to lock them away," the older one countered. "We need to understand how they work, and why they're here..."

The younger agent cut him off with sharp look and a shake of his head. Apparently, he had crossed a line and shared too much information. "We need to move on this now. It's already far too public. You remember her little display earlier?"

"You're too late," Celeste interrupted.

Both men turned to look at her. The younger strode up to the window to see what she was looking at. In the street below, a crowd had started to form. There were dozens of people already, and more were coming every minute. They were shouting and chanting for Celeste. "Shit, she's right."

The older agent came up to look. "Do you think she knew? Is she precognitive as well?"

"This is getting out of control. We're leaving. Now." The younger agent took Celeste by the arm and started leading her out of the room. She didn't resist. Her faith was absolute. She was confident that God would not allow them to take her. He handed his keys to the older agent and said, "We'll have to go out the back through the loading dock. Bring the car around and I'll meet you there.

"But we should..."

"There's no time to argue. Just do it."

He obviously didn't like being ordered around by this younger man, but circumstances hadn't left him any options. He took the keys and went back the way they had come toward the parking lot.

The young agent escorted her down several long hallways until they arrived at the loading dock, bursting through the swinging doors with Celeste in tow. He looked around for the exit and finally found it off to his left. He had just started toward it when two huge men emerged from hiding and threw a loading blanket over his head. He instinctively reached for his taser, but he found the holster empty. They were too strong for him. He might have been able to take down one of them in a fair fight, but they had surprised him. There was no way out of this, and he knew it. He felt straps being wrapped around him and tightened. "Let me go!" he cried. "I'm a federal agent."

But the men were ignoring his pleas. "We know who you are. Just be quiet and your partner will be along soon to let you go."

"I know you," said Celeste. "I've seen you at..."

One of the men held a finger to his lips, signaling her to keep silent. He motioned for her to follow him out the exit. Outside a limousine was idling with the door open, waiting for her. The men ushered her inside and closed the door before climbing in front. Seated in the back with her was none other than Papa Bear himself. Celeste was ecstatic. Her prayers had been answered once again. "Oh, thank you. I knew someone would come."

The charismatic preacher sized up the frail woman, still in her bathrobe. His trademark compassionate visage had been replaced by a hard, critical gaze as he tried to size her up. He tapped on the glass partition and the limo started moving forward. "I certainly hope you're worth all the trouble it took to get you out of there, Ms. Green. If you can do half the things they say you can, I am going to make you famous."

"I don't care about fame," she answered. "I just want to spread His message to the world."

"Well now," said Papa Bear, as a huge grin spread across his face. "A true believer. That should make things a whole lot easier."

Celeste smiled back at Papa Bear. This was her fondest wish come true. She had been granted the greatest gift, the power to heal, and now she had a way to reach the world to spread His message. She was truly blessed. There was nothing that would ever shake her faith again.

## Michael

It was a full ten minutes later when Michael burst through the doors to the receiving area with his taser drawn. He had begun searching for some trace of Dittersdorf when he heard something moving in a dark corner and went to investigate.

He found his partner bound, with the loading blanket still wrapped around his head and torso. He had to laugh. "Wait until I tell them at the Barn how a ninety-pound cancer patient hog-tied one of their best agents. I've got to get a picture." He pulled out his phone and snapped a few images.

"She had help, you idiot," he replied. "Hurry up and untie me. We've got to go after them."

A little reluctantly, he started unfastening the straps. "You know I've been thinking. Why don't we let this one go? She seems utterly benign. So what if she heals some people. They'll pass it off as another evangelical sideshow. Let her do some good in the world." He pulled the blanket off the other man's head.

"Benign?" Dittersdorf answered. "Is that what you think? The only reason most people don't fall for the fakes is because they are fake. If someone actually starts healing people, first there will be a crowd, then a movement, and finally a new church will spring up with Ms. Green as their prophet and savior. You think that's harmless? Do you want another Lourdes or Chimayó on your hands? Or a Waco? You know more than anyone that we can't let a single one go free"

He was silent for a moment before he added, "You're right, of course. It's just she seemed so sincere, so earnest, in her belief. It makes me wonder whether there's something to it. Maybe this time, it's the real deal."

Dittersdorf scoffed, "You spend your life hunting down freaks and alien invaders, you see the harm that they do, and you still question whether there's a god or not?"

"No, I was just thinking," he answered. "I don't know if there is a God or not. But if there is, I hope He's on our side."

# Unapologetic

## Riley

He had made a career out of solving other people's problems. For the most part, those people were extremely rich, and their problems consisted of spying on cheating husbands, paying off greedy mistresses, or retrieving items which had been wrongfully removed from their owners. The work was often dull, occasionally exhilarating, but always profitable. His latest job, however, was nothing but pure industrial espionage. Although that was not Riley's usual line of work, it certainly didn't bother him if companies wanted to take a peek at their competitor's secrets. That was, as long as he came out ahead.

Besides, this job had proved to be a challenge to his body and mind, and that was a rare pleasure. The headquarters of Watson Industries was as close to a fortress as one could find in a modern city. The campus took up an entire city block, and the main office tower eclipsed the majority of its neighbors in height. Access to the building was restricted by an elaborate security system and a host of guards. These men were all ex-military, paid handsomely to follow orders and to not ask questions.

His goal was the most secure part of the entire facility, the basement labs, said to house the company's most closely guarded secrets. Rumors had surfaced that they had acquired a new piece of military grade technology that was going to revolutionize data storage, so Riley was being sent in to learn if they were true. It had taken him just three days to map out the entire security system and learn an administration level password. After only seventy-two hours of posing as a janitor, he was ready to take down one of the most secure buildings in the city. Sometimes, he impressed even himself.

He timed his routine to arrive at the main security desk in the lobby just as one of the two guards was leaving for his scheduled break. While Riley dumped the trash can, the remaining guard never looked away from the baseball game playing on one of the screens. "Who's winning?" asked Riley.

"Yankees," he answered, "as usual."

"I'm a Cubs fan myself," said Riley, "but I never bet on them to win." As Riley bent down to replace the can, his fingers reached under the bank of video monitors long enough to place a surprise there. It was a lump of putty with a small circuit board attached, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. It was not a bomb in the traditional sense; such things were for madmen and radicals. He was neither of those. No, there was no need to blow up a building when a puff of smoke would do. With any luck, it would pass for an overload and not set the building on high alert. Subtlety was the hallmark of an artist. He would leave brute force to the brutes of the world.

Riley continued on his rounds, counting down the minutes until the device was triggered. He didn't need a watch. He could keep perfect time in his head even before his other abilities had manifested themselves.

As a child, he had been the poster boy for the tragically uncoordinated. Rarely would a day go by when he was not smashing his shins or bending over to pick up something he had dropped. All that changed as he hit puberty. Almost overnight he became a star athlete, the envy of his peers. He got stronger and quicker every day until his prowess became almost legendary. Soon he was performing feats that should have been impossible.

For him, it was like he had an extra sense that let him perceive and react to the world around him with heightened speed and accuracy. It let him throw and catch better than a pro athlete and dodge opponents like he was made of wind. Other people were just pieces on a chessboard, but he saw the entire game at once. He was a player, not a pawn.

At first, the praise and adulation were intoxicating. It was the kind of validation he had always craved, but it had started to draw unwanted attention as well. One night, as a high school playoff game was about to start, alarm bells started to sound in his head. In the stands, two men in dark suits had joined the crowd at the stadium. They had not come to cheer on their sons, or even just to enjoy some amateur sports. No, they had come to watch and judge, and Riley was the one on trial. The sense of menace that these two posed was as clear as if they were pointing a gun at him.

He threw a few plays, hoping that would shake the men off his trail. When that didn't work, he faked a muscle pull in the second half and sat out the rest of the game. By the time the final whistle had blown, the men were gone, and the hot coal of anxiety in his mind had almost completely faded away. It was obvious to him now that there were others who suspected that he was more than he appeared to be and would use that knowledge against him. He would never let them get that close again.

His internal clock roused him back to the present. He had been daydreaming, but now he had work. Riley pushed his cart into the nearby bathroom on the main floor and stripped off his coveralls. Underneath, he wore charcoal trousers and a white shirt. He looked like any one of the hundreds of workers who moved through the building on a daily basis.

The package that Riley had placed at the security desk earlier was now being delivered. As the putty burned, it created a cloud of choking smoke that smelled of burning plastic. A shower of sparks would be erupting from the video monitor console, sending the guards into a panic. Even though the damage to the equipment itself was relatively minor, the men here were well trained, and they would shut down the cameras before the fire could spread.

He would have to move quickly now while the guards were still unorganized. Protocol stated that they would move to seal off the exits and other sensitive areas. He checked the hallway to make sure the coast was clear and then bolted to the stairwell. Three floors down he went, below even the underground parking levels, to the sub-basement. That was where they kept the computer labs, safe from prying eyes. Now the next stage of his plan could begin.

He passed a utility room and found the right door, unmarked and nondescript but sealed with an electronic lock. It opened with a swipe of his security badge. Although the badge was a forgery, it was a nearly perfect one. He had lifted an all-access pass from security on his first day and had copied the chip before returning it. Until someone checked the logs and compared the electronic signatures, he could open almost any door in the complex. Now there was only one more hurdle between him and the labs.

The key to any good lie was confidence. If you could play the part, they would accept you. A minute ago he had been a janitor, now he was a computer technician. The guard at the lab entrance was sitting at his desk, apparently enthralled by the detective novel he was reading. He barely glanced up as Riley approached, satisfied that the proper credentials were being displayed.

Riley's gifts let him size up the man in an instant, as well as if he could read his mind. He had long ago decided that his post was superfluous at best. There were four locked doors between this lab and the outside world, not to mention a dozen trained killers on guard at any one time. As far as he was concerned, nobody could get in here. Nobody even knew this place existed, except the few dozen people who worked here.

Riley kept a stoic appearance, trying not to show his relief at the guard's lack of interest. He placed his keys and watch in the tray before passing through the metal detector. Cameras and phones were strictly prohibited, but there were always ways around that. Some quick sleight-of-hand was all he needed to slip a smartphone by the disinterested guard and through the gate. He slipped the phone back into his pocket before collecting his watch and keys.

Now there was only one final barrier between him and the lab. He waved his card at the reader on the lab door. For a few anxious seconds he waited for the system to respond, but finally the lock buzzed and opened. He was inside the lab.

It was said you needed a PhD just to mop the floors in this place, and from the look of some of the equipment, he thought that might be true. At this hour, the lab would be deserted except for a few technicians, who were busy with problems of their own and were nowhere to be seen. Riley quickly found an empty office and sat down at the computer terminal. It was a closed network with no link to the outside, but he would soon fix that.

He slipped off his watch, spun the bezel, and popped the workings into the palm of his hand. A more attentive guard would have noticed that the watch wasn't running, because it was, in fact, a cleverly designed data transmitter and not a watch at all. Riley climbed under the desk and clipped the bug on to the network cable. Now everything that was brought up on this terminal would be broadcast via a set of relays and duplicated on a dedicated server stationed in a small, nondescript office a few blocks away. This was the last of half-a-dozen similar devices he had placed in the past three days, but the most important. This isolated system held all the secrets that Watson didn't want the world to know.

He logged on with his stolen credentials and searched the system for all the most recent research logs, schematics, and diagrams. A lot of it was way over Riley's head. He would leave it for his employer to figure out what it all meant. From what he could gather though, almost all of their current efforts were concentrated on one project, something involving crystals and light.

Riley bit his lip as he considered his options. If he could get a look at their top project, it would mean a significant bonus for him, but his plan hinged on getting out before he was detected. Deciding it was worth the added risk, he logged out of the terminal and went back out into the hallway. There were no signs anywhere, but the layout was simple enough that he was able to find the right place in under a minute.

The small lab was a clean room with a large window for observation at one end looking down into the pit. Two men were working below, dressed in the obligatory white paper jumpsuits. In the center of the lab was a metal workbench. Resting on top of it was an unfamiliar machine, about the size of a car engine. There were tubes and wires coming out if it, making it look more like a movie prop than a piece of scientific equipment. Riley was disappointed. Even if he knew what this thing was, it looked too technical to glean any useful information from in a casual viewing. Nevertheless, he slipped the phone out of his pocket and took some quick video.

One of the men reached over and grabbed the control box for the overhead winch. As the chains tightened, the strange apparatus lifted up off the table. Riley realized that this was just testing equipment for something else inside. His hopes began to rise, and he leaned forward to get a better look.

What he saw next was impossible. A large crystal, elegantly cut with a thousand faces sat on a pedestal in the middle of the workbench. From the brilliance and the way it caught the light, he was almost sure it could be only one thing. It was a diamond. And it was the size of his head.

Riley couldn't stop looking at it. He knew the largest stones ever found would still fit in the palm of his hand. Those rocks were all famous, often with sordid histories that eclipsed their owner's notoriety. That this jewel was a secret was beyond his ability to rationalize. It's very existence should be worldwide headline news.

The light danced off of it, as if it was moving, but Riley knew it was just an illusion. His own legs were subtly shifting, trying to keep his upright body in balance. That was what made it seem to sparkle. Still, the flashes seemed to have a pattern to them, like a language he couldn't understand. It was utterly mesmerizing. It seemed almost alive, like it was speaking to him. If he were very still and quiet, he thought he could hear a voice.

It was telling him to get out. Get out, now.

A warning signal seared his mind as he heard footsteps in the hall behind him and he slipped the phone into his shirt pocket. A middle-aged balding man was coming toward him. He had the almost cliché, disheveled appearance of middle-management. "Hey, who the hell are you?"

Riley tugged at his badge. "Fitzgerald. They sent me down to fix a server problem."

"I know everyone who's supposed to be here," the man said, "but I've never seen you before." He plucked the badge from Riley's shirt and reached for the telephone receiver that hung beside the glass. "Stay right there. Don't move." Before he could dial, however, Riley closed the distance between them and knocked the receiver out of the man's hand. An instant later, Riley's arm was wrapped around the man's neck, cutting off his oxygen. He struggled and swung his arms wildly, but Riley's grip was too strong for him and he finally slumped over, unconscious.

Riley regretted having to hurt anyone, but it was better than the alternatives. After lowering him gently to the floor, Riley stood up and looked through the glass again to find the two techs standing there, staring back up at him. They were both frozen in disbelief, but the moment passed quickly. One of them headed for a nearby phone while the other started lowering the housing to secure the gem.

He took one last longing look the diamond. However much he might desire it, he knew it was impossible. There was no way he could ever get out of the building with it. He would be lucky if he got out of here as it was. If he had known that it was here, if he could have planned for it, it might have been a different story. But right now, there was no time for regret.

When the alarm sounded, Riley was already gone. Soon every guard in the building would be on top of him, and that was more than even he could handle. He went the only way he could, back toward the exit and certain capture. As he approached the door, he reached for his badge and found nothing. In his haste, he had forgotten the pass. He was trapped. He considered going back for it, but decided against it. The guards would show up long before he could make it back to the door. Instead, he resolved to wait for them here where he could bottleneck them at the entrance and take them on one at a time.

Riley braced himself for the coming onslaught. It would take everything he had to get out of this building in one piece. When the door buzzed, he crouched ready to strike, but the door handle didn't turn. He waited ten seconds, but still no one came through. The longer he delayed, the more time they had to get organized. He pushed open the door, half expecting to see a small army waiting for him, but it was only the same novel-reading guard that had ignored him before. Riley wondered for a moment who had unlocked the door, but he figured it was better to worry about it later and just be thankful for the small miracle.

The guard was sitting at the desk with the phone in one hand. The guard dropped the receiver and stood up when the he saw Riley approaching. He began fumbling at his holster, but he was too slow. Riley ran flat out and launched himself at the guard, his foot landing squarely in the man's gut. With the wind knocked out of him, it was a simple matter for Riley to lift the guard's handcuffs from his belt and lock his arms to the frame of the metal detector. He picked up the guard's taser and security pass as well. His next encounter wouldn't be so easy, and he still had to get out of the building.

Almost on cue, the next two guards showed up as he rounded the corner. One on the left with a nightstick, the other with a stun gun. Riley went to his left, dodging a swing from the club. He gave the guy a shot to the solar plexus and grabbed his arm just in time to swing him around to catch the darts from the other guard's taser in the chest. With his own taser, he fired a shot into the man's thigh. While they were momentarily disabled, Riley lifted their passes and hurried out the next door, locking them inside.

He was off and running again, racing up the stairs three at a time. He was still far from an exit, and they were closing in on all sides. He knew his best shot was to get to his car on the lower parking level and run the gate. When he got to the right door, he swiped the guard's card and barreled through the door. The alarm in his head went off again, but this time it was too late. A searing pain burst in his chest, and he felt his legs turn to jelly. He fell to his knees as the electric shock ran through his body. Two guards had been waiting for him, and one had nailed him with his stun gun.

Riley felt weak and clumsy. He was that awkward boy again who couldn't walk across the room without tripping over his own feet. It was like everything that had made him special had vanished in an instant. He had never felt so helpless. Even the warning bell in his head had gone silent. All he could do was crouch down on his hands and knees and try to breathe.

"Don't move!" One of the guards moved around behind him with his handcuffs out. "One wrong move and I'm going to break your fucking skull open."

One of the darts had pierced his skin right above his heart, but the other was stuck in the casing of the phone in his pocket. That small amount of insulation had spared him from the full force of the taser's shock. But from the burnt smell, he knew the phone's precious contents had been wiped out as well. Now he was just angry. All at once, he felt his strength return, and with it came his will to live. His strategic mind worked overtime and in a split second had devised a new plan. Like someone had thrown a switch, he saw the way out of this trap.

As the guard was about to grab his wrist, Riley sprang up and pulled the electrodes from his chest. He swung around the man, wrapping the wires once around the guard's neck before plunging the darts in his back. Seeing Riley get up, the first guard pulled the trigger to deliver another shock. Too late he realized his mistake as his partner went into convulsions and fell to the floor. He dropped the taser and came rushing at Riley with his club drawn.

Riley was waiting for him. He caught the man's arm as he swung it down. Falling backwards he pulled the smaller man on top of him. Using the momentum of the charge and a push with his legs, Riley catapulted the guard upside-down into the steel stairwell door behind him. He landed with a satisfying thud that left him momentarily senseless. Riley picked up the handcuffs that the other guard had dropped as he rolled out of his backwards somersault. Wrenching the disoriented man's arm almost out of its socket, he chained him to the stairwell door.

Behind the closed door, he could hear the boots of more guards coming down the stairs. The elevator was moving as well, coming slowly but surely toward him. He had to get out of here now.

"You're dead!" shouted the one chained to the door. "When I get my hands on you, you're fucking dead. You hear me?!"

Riley heard, but didn't care. He was already moving again and didn't have time to waste on empty bravado. It took just a few seconds to get to his car. More guards emerged from the stairwell, but these were armed with pistols. They paused to check on their comrades giving Riley enough time to slip behind the wheel. Slamming down on the accelerator, he clipped the cement pillar as he backed out. As he shifted into drive, the rear window exploded into a million pieces, raining down into the backseat.

He gunned the motor and sped off toward the exit ramp. The car shuddered as more bullets hit the trunk. The sound of the gunfire and the squealing tires was deafening in the enclosed space of the garage. Riley sped up the ramp to the upper parking level where another guard was waiting for him. That one put two rounds in the door before he was out of range. Beside Riley the door panel snapped and cracked, but no bullets came through. It would take more than a 9mm to punch through the steel plates he had installed in the door frames and over the radiator. It paid to plan ahead. He was almost out.

At the exit, the gate was down and the garage door was closed. A guard walked out of the security booth with his gun drawn and took a couple of shots at the speeding car. One of the shots shattered the windshield, but Riley didn't slow down. Instead, he sped directly at the closed door. The guard, seeing the car was not going to stop, ran back into the booth to keep from getting run over. Ramming the door was never Riley's plan, however. He veered at the last second and rammed the car into the booth. The back end swung out and hit the wall firmly wedging the car in the exit ramp. He stepped out of the car and hopped up on the hood.

Unconscious and bleeding, the guard was pinned by the car and slumped down on the hood. Riley reached into the wreckage of the booth and hit the button to open the door. As it rolled up to reveal the night sky beyond, more guards could be heard coming up behind him, but he had blocked the only exit. They would be forced to come after him on foot or waste time trying to drive up the entrance ramp and circle around. Out in the open his speed was more than a match for any of them, and he quickly slipped away. Ten minutes later he was at his safe house in a rundown apartment building halfway across downtown and there was no pursuit in sight. He had gotten away, but only barely.

There would be hell to pay for this disaster. His employer would not be happy with tonight's outcome. Not only had he blown his cover and caused some major damage, but he had nothing to show for it except a wild story about a giant diamond. There was still a good chance that the relay would yield some answers, if they didn't do a sweep and find the transmitters first, but it wasn't like Riley to leave important matters like that to chance. Watson was holding back a treasure like that from the world and he needed to know why.

He was going to need a new plan.

# Unmovable

## Richard

"Let's go over this one more time. You broke into the house because you heard the children crying?" asked Sergeant Timmins.

"No, I couldn't hear them," answered Richard. "I felt them crying."

"What do you mean, 'You felt them'?"

"It's difficult to explain." He paused to collect his thoughts. This was the fourth time he'd recounted the events of last night, and he was becoming frustrated. "It's actually more like a smell than a touch, but if I said 'I smelled them', you wouldn't understand. You'd think I literally smelled something, some odor, coming from the house. But it's not like that at all. I'm just saying that's how I perceive it. It probably has something to do with the way my brain processes sensory data." Richard shifted uncomfortably in the old wooden chair. He had been sitting there for hours without a break.

"So what does crying 'smell' like?" asked Timmins.

"You see. You don't understand. If you did, you would realize that's a nonsensical question. It's like saying, 'What does a banana smell like?' You can beat around the bush and say things like fruity or sweet, but that doesn't really describe it. It's a unique chemical signature that can only be truly experienced directly, not described. It's like asking, 'What color is red?' All you can do is point to something and say that's red."

Sergeant Timmins wrinkled his nose and scratched his head. As a cop, he had clearly become accustomed to dealing in absolutes. With him, things were almost always black and white. You either saw what happened or you didn't; it was as simple as that. All this talk of feeling and smelling things was just confusing him. Richard wished he could make it easier for him, but he didn't know how.

"Could I get an orange soda?" asked Richard. "Or maybe a root beer? I'm starting to get a little hungry."

"Maybe in a few minutes. First, let's go back to the year before last, the night of the sixteenth of October. That was the first time you were brought in here. Now, you claim you overheard a heated domestic dispute and went to intervene."

"If by domestic dispute," Richard interrupted, "you mean a guy beating the crap out of his wife, then yeah."

The sergeant looked through one of the files he had on the table in front of him. "Right. Parsons. I remember the case now. The Chief wanted to give you a commendation, but he couldn't because..."

"Because I almost killed the guy," he said with regret. "That was early on when it started. I didn't know my own strength back then. I'm much more careful now."

"So you admit you go out looking for trouble," accused Timmins. He seemed happy to have found something concrete to latch on to.

"No, on the contrary," said Richard. "I wish I could get away from it all." He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. He didn't want the other man to see how close he was to crying. "You have no idea how hard it is, to feel all the suffering that goes on around you, and not be able to shut it out. The worst part is knowing you can't do anything about it. Not usually, anyway." He took a deep breath to help regain his composure, and folded his arms on the table in front of him. "When this first started, I tried to keep to myself. Trust me, you don't want to know the inner workings of other people's minds. What isn't banal tedium is primitive savagery. We like to hide it all behind a veneer of civilization, but the naked truth is we are still animals."

Richard wasn't looking at the other man now. His eyes drifted up to the light filtering in through the small slit of a window in the interview room. "Sometimes I go wandering around in the middle of the night. Most people are asleep, and that makes it easier. But when I walked past that apartment block, it was as if she had called me on the phone and said, 'He's hurting me. Please help.' What could I do?"

He turned his gaze back to the cop on the other side of the table. "If you saw someone drowning, and you could save them with no risk to yourself, you'd do it, wouldn't you? Of course you would. Even if you weren't a cop, you'd still do it. You'd have to be a sociopath not to. What if instead of drowning, it was a woman being assaulted? Are the ethics any different? My abilities only change the way I perceive the world. It doesn't change how I choose to react to it. It doesn't affect morality."

Timmins cleared his throat before continuing. "Let's talk about your...other abilities. You said you were unusually strong."

"Yes."

"Just how strong are you?"

"I could kick through that door like it was paper, or pick you up and throw you across the room..." Richard stopped. Timmins was feeling a little threatened by him and was growing concerned for his safety. He leaned back in his chair to help put the man at ease. "Not more than your average bodybuilder. Nothing supernatural at any rate."

Sergeant Timmins sized up the man sitting across from him. "Forgive me for saying so, but you don't look it. If anything you look a little flabby."

"What? Oh yeah. Well, I don't go to the gym anymore. You wouldn't believe the amount of vanity and self-doubt there is in a place like that." Richard could tell he wasn't impressed. In fact, he seemed distracted by something. "Maybe a demonstration would help. You have a gym here in the station? I could probably bench press a couple of rookies." His small attempt at humor seemed to go unnoticed.

"You also claim to be able to heal quickly."

"Small cuts and abrasions will disappear in a day or two. I haven't broken any bones since this started, but I imagine they would heal more quickly as well."

"Hmm." There were a few moments of silence as Timmins leafed through the files on the table. "Anything else." he asked without looking up.

"That's not enough?"

The sergeant didn't answer. "Let's go back to last night. You were walking home..."

"I was walking home from the grocery store. When I felt there were two small children who were very sad and afraid. I knocked on the door and a man in his late-forties answered. I pushed past him and down into the basement studio where I found a young boy and a little girl, both all of nine-years-old. They were confused and in pain. I told them to get dressed and I would take them home. The girl said they already were home."

Richard paused for a moment to let that image pass from his mind. It still bothered him, even now. "That was when the father came charging down the stairs with a knife. I felt his rage, just as I had felt his guilty lust earlier. I was ready for him. In the struggle, he cut me on the forearm." He held up his arm and pulled up his sleeve. "See? Almost healed already. I broke his wrist and he dropped the knife. We wrestled a little longer. He was fighting for his life and I was trying not to hurt him anymore. That was when..."

"Go on," Sergeant Timmins prompted.

Richard hung his head looked down at his hands. "That was when the boy stabbed him in the back." They both sat in silence for a time. Finally, Richard spoke, "He didn't have to do that. The evidence in the camera alone would have put him away until the kids were your age. It was already over. He didn't have to do that."

Timmins said nothing. He only jotted something down in one of the files.

Richard stood up, put his hands on the table, and leaned forward. "Look, I'm done here. I used to be a lawyer once upon a time, and I know you can't keep me here. I haven't broken any laws. Everything I've done was in self-defense. So you can either charge me with something or let me go."

"Mr. Wells, sit down. As a lawyer, you know perfectly well we can hold you until tomorrow, even without charges. A man is dead. Even if your story checks out, there are procedures to follow. We haven't even finished examining the crime scene yet."

He sat down. "Fine," he said. "I didn't have anything else planned today, anyway. But can I at least get a sandwich or something."

"I'll see what I can do." The sergeant stood up, collected the papers into one pile, and tucked it under his arm. "I'll be right back." He left and locked the door behind him.

Richard could feel the cops around him. They were a cocky bunch. He guessed they would have to be from having to deal with thieves and thugs all day. There were scattered feelings of rage, guilt, and even remorse. He guessed those must be the criminals. Again he wished he could shut it off. Humans weren't made to know this much about one another.

The door opened and Sergeant Timmins came back in with a sandwich wrapped in plastic and a can of root beer. "Here you go," he said, placing them on the table before sitting down.

"No orange soda?" Richard asked.

"They were out," he answered. "So, tell me how this ability of yours works. Do you read minds? Can you tell me what I'm thinking?"

Richard bit hungrily into the sandwich. It was bologna, probably from the jailhouse rations. He opened the can and took a sip to clear the taste from his mouth. "No, it doesn't work like that. It's not words or thoughts, just feelings and sensations. Sometimes I get an image, but even that's rare."

"What good is that, if you can't hear people's thoughts?"

"Well, for one thing, I can tell when people are lying." Richard held up the can of root beer. "They weren't out of orange, were they."

For the first time since he'd met him, Timmins let an emotion show on his face. It was a mixture of surprise and embarrassment. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "That's a hell of a party trick. What else can you do?"

"I can tell where people are and what they're feeling. I know if they're going to be helpful or harmful. I share their joy and their pain. Mostly pain. You have no idea how much pain there is in the world." He took another bite of the sandwich, then chewed and swallowed. "And I can tell you don't believe any of this. Have you called for the wagon to the funny farm yet?"

Richard had surprised him again. "I don't know what you mean. We're here to talk about what happened tonight, that's all."

He finished the sandwich and drank down the last of the root beer. "It's all right. That's why I told you what I did. I knew you'd have no choice but to lock me up in a mental ward. I've lived with this too long, and I just want it to end. A brain full of sedatives and anti-psychotics sounds like a walk in the garden to me. I'm ready."

Richard could tell he'd left the man speechless. The sergeant tapped his pen against the table as he struggled to find something to say. "If you thought you were sick, why didn't you check yourself into a hospital? You don't need to get arrested to do that. You'd just have to tell them the same story you told me."

"I don't know," said Richard. "Pride, I guess. You never like to admit that you can't handle something on your own, no matter how crazy it seems. It wasn't until I saw that boy with the knife in his hand..." He sighed. Even now, thinking about it brought him to the edge of breaking down. "It wasn't until tonight that I'd reached the limits of my endurance. I'm done. Lock me away. I don't care anymore."

Sergeant Timmins was ready to tell him the truth. "As a matter of fact, I did call the hospital. We were just holding you here until a bed opened up in the locked psych ward. With your history, we thought it was the best place for you, but then we got a call from the feds. It seems you've attracted the attention of some very important people. I just wanted to know why."

Richard reached out with his mind. A wave of mild suspicion and curiosity was moving through the building, but he couldn't find its source. Where there should have been minds full of emotion and desires, there was nothing but empty space. It was as if an invisible spirit were moving through the rooms below, and like a ghost, it filled him with dread.

A primitive desire to survive gripped Richard. It was almost as if another will had supplanted his own and forced him into action. He knew that the men who were coming for him were dangerous and that he had to escape. He turned to Timmins and begged, "You've got to let me out of here! You don't know what you've done. Those agents aren't who they say they are."

"Try to stay calm. They just want to talk to you."

Richard was desperate. "Remember what I said about the drowning man. Well I'm about to drown and you're the one holding my head under the water. All I need you to do is open the door and let me go."

"I'm sorry. You know I can't do that."

Richard could see it was hopeless. The sergeant was too set in his ways to see the incredible, even when it was right in front of him. Maybe if he'd had more time to convince him, he could have brought him around, but that wasn't going to happen now. They were already here.

Richard looked the other man in the eye and said, "You're a decent man and a good cop. I'm sorry."

Puzzled, Timmins asked, "Sorry for what?"

Richard leapt over the table and charged at Timmins, knocking him to the ground. As the sergeant struggled to get back up, Richard grasped the man with both hands and tossed him like a rag doll against the far wall. Stunned, the cop crumpled into a heap on the floor. Richard threw all his weight against the door, but it was reinforced and wouldn't give. He kicked at the door once, and then again, before the frame gave way with a loud crack.

As he barreled through the open door, Richard felt a sting in his side. He fell to the floor in convulsions as the taser discharged. Groggy and disoriented, he thought he felt a sickly sweet mist hit him in the face and then everything went dark.

He woke in a small, chilly concrete cell. His head hurt and he felt exhausted, like he'd just run a marathon. He was lying naked on a bunk except for a collar that tingled and occasionally gave him tiny shocks. It itched but he couldn't see any way to get it off. There was an orange jumpsuit on the floor beside him, along with some underwear and a pair of slippers. He got up off the bed and put the clothes on.

There were no windows, not even in the door. There was just a shuttered slot, presumably to serve the prisoners meals, but it was locked shut. Feeling parched, he went to the small sink built into the back of the steel toilet and drank from the faucet.

It was then that he realized he was alone. For the first time in years, there were no other people in his head. Finally, he would have some peace and quiet. At least, for as long as it lasted. He looked up at the camera that hung from the ceiling in one corner of the cell and said, "Thank you."

# Untold

## Amanda

The old laptop computer seemed to be in good condition despite its age. Amanda opened the lid to check the screen and keyboard. They were undamaged and clean. The previous owner had kept it in good condition. She closed the lid and looked at the outside again.

Garage sales were a guilty pleasure of hers, although she rarely bought anything. There wasn't a lot of money after the rent and bills were paid, and what was left her husband Bill usually drank away. Still she like to see and touch and smell all the things other people had collected over the years. Each piece had a history, its own story to tell, if only you could listen hard enough.

"It's forty dollars," said the young woman sitting nearby. "Hi, I'm Nancy. It was my dad's. He hasn't used it in a couple of years, but it works okay. It's just slow. Here, let me show you." She got up and walked over to where Amanda was standing. Opening the lid, she pressed the power button and the machine started to boot up.

"I was thinking maybe I could use it to keep a journal," said Amanda. "Or maybe even write a story or two."

"It should be fine for that," Nancy replied. "Here, let me show you." She waited impatiently for the computer to finish. "See," she said, pointing to the screen, "there's a word processor installed on there already. It's all free software so it won't cost you anything more to keep it updated. You just need an Internet connection. Do you have wi-fi?"

"I'm not sure," said Amanda, sheepishly. "We have a computer at home, and sometimes my husband lets me look up new recipes on the Google."

The woman looked aghast. "Lets you? What are you a prisoner?"

"No," she replied. Nancy's intensity was making her a little nervous. "He just worries that I'll waste all day on nonsense so he locks it up with a password."

"Ugh, I can't believe in this day and age...," Nancy sighed, turning the laptop off and closing the lid. She picked it up and handed it to Amanda. "I'll tell you what. You can have that as a gift. Access to information is a right, not a privilege or bit of candy to make you behave."

Amanda put the computer back down on the folding table. "No, I'm sorry. I really should be going." She adjusted her purse on her shoulder and started to walk away.

Nancy gently caught her elbow before she could escape. "All right you can have it for ten dollars. That's for the computer, all the cables and the carrying case." She let go of Amanda's elbow and her voice softened when she saw the almost frightened look on her face. "Look, you'll be doing me a favor. If someone doesn't buy it soon we'll just wind up throwing it away. So it might as well go to someone who needs it." Nancy stuffed the laptop in the bag and held it out to Amanda. "Please, take it."

Amanda stood motionless for a moment, deciding what she should do. Inside her, a tiny voice was telling her to take it, but she knew Bill would never approve. She would just have to keep it a secret from him, that's all. She was a grown woman, after all. She opened her purse and dug out her wallet. She would have to skip a couple of lunches, but it was worth it. "For ten dollars, you said?"

"Yes," she answered.

Amanda handed over two neatly folded five dollar bills, and accepted the bag from Nancy.

"I go to school during the day," said Nancy, "but you can find me here most evenings if you need any help with the laptop. Or anything else."

"Thank you, dear," she said. "For everything."

Amanda looked at her watch with some dismay. She would have to hurry if she was going to get supper made in time. She walked as briskly as she dared. She didn't want to trip and ruin her new computer. It made her smile with a guilty pleasure when she thought that. Something that was just hers.

She went through the rusty gate, across the small yard, and straight into the kitchen. She put a pot of water on the stove and turned on the oven. She had a few minutes so she put the laptop on the table and turned it on. She found the program, opened a new file and started to type.

Today I bought a new computer. I haven't been this excited since I was a little girl and my mom brought home a new kitten for me and my sisters to play with. We named him Chewie after the hairy guy in Star Wars, and because he kept biting our fingers. I really miss having a cat around to keep me company. I wish Bill could understand how lonely I am sometimes.

The water hissed as it started to boil and splash on the stove-top. Amanda saved the file and shut off the computer. She gingerly placed it back in its bag and zipped it up tight. Searching for a place where her husband would never look,she stashed the bag in the cupboard behind the big soup pot. It was getting late, so she turned her attention back to making dinner.

When Bill came in, he was in a foul mood. They'd been having a lot of trouble at work and were laying off a lot of the staff. That just meant more work for the ones who were left. He'd started drinking more, which didn't really help, it just masked the pain for a while. Amanda told herself that he wasn't a bad man. It's just that he could never catch a break.

He opened the fridge and took out a beer. "I'm going to eat in the living room. The game is starting and I don't want to miss it."

"Of course, dear," she said. "You go and relax and I'll bring you a plate in a minute." As he left the kitchen, the smile left her face. When they were first married, they would go out at least once a week to a restaurant. In the last two years, the only time they went out was on their anniversary, and Bill managed to make even that seem like a chore. He barely even ate at the table anymore, preferring to get lost in the television every night until he got too drunk or too tired to keep his eyes open. She had worked hard to cook him a meal, but she knew he would barely even taste it.

Tonight was no exception. Bill fell asleep in front of the television before ten. Amanda woke him up as gently as she could and he stumbled off to bed. She wasn't tired, however, still being too excited about her new computer. She didn't dare pull it out of its hiding place while Bill was in the house, but she couldn't stop thinking about what she would write tomorrow. It was just past midnight when she heard a scratching at the back door. Curious, she went to investigate.

As she looked down through the screen door, she saw a fluffy brown cat sitting on the porch. She was going to shoo it away when something stopped her. Amanda turned on the porch light to get a better look. That was when she realized that she recognized this cat. It was the long-dead pet from her childhood. It was Chewie sitting there on her porch.

But it couldn't be, could it?

The little beast just sat there staring back at her. Amanda quietly opened the door and stepped outside. The cat responded by rubbing up against her ankles and purring loudly. She bent down to take a closer look. It rubbed its muzzle against her hand as she tried to scratch behind its ears. Then it rolled over on its back, offering its belly to be rubbed.

Amanda could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. He's so much like Chewie, but that's not possible. That cat was buried in the backyard of her childhood home half a continent away. Still she couldn't resist the urge to oblige the adorable animal, so she reached down to stroke his belly. She hadn't thought it was possible, but the cat purred even louder.

Softly, she whispered, "Chewie?"

The cat bent its head down and nipped at her thumb. It was too much for Amanda. She stood up and gently kicked the cat away. "Shoo," she hissed. "Go on, get lost."

Confused, the cat bounded off a few steps away, sat down and stared at Amanda. "Go back where you came from," she whispered, hoarsely. She waved her hands as if she might brush the cat away. The cat's only response was to lick his paw. Amanda slipped back inside and locked the door behind her.

She wiped a tear from her cheek and chided herself, "Now, you're just being foolish... getting so worked up over some stray. What you need is a good night's sleep, that's all."

She promptly got ready for bed and slipped between the sheets beside her snoring husband. Her sleep was anything but restful, however. Memories of her childhood flooded her dreams, and she had to relive how she had lost Chewie forever. Once, she woke up in a sweat and thought she heard scratching. She listened, but didn't hear it again.

Amanda woke up to her morning alarm and quickly shut it off so Bill could have a few more minutes of sleep. She went to the kitchen and peeked out the window, but she couldn't see the cat anywhere. Relieved, she started making breakfast before going to wake her still sleeping husband. After Bill had eaten and left for work, she quickly got started with her chores. She had a lot to do today, and she wanted to leave enough time to do some writing.

When the house was clean and the laundry folded, she went outside into the backyard where her garden was. She had started it a couple of years ago to help save money, but she found she enjoyed the gardening itself as much as the bounty it provided. It was rewarding to work with her hands and see what she could accomplish.

Bill never came out here anymore, so it was her space where she could do what she liked. Next year she would plant some flowers and some perennials along the fence there to make it prettier. She would have to save up for the plants and fertilizer, but it would be worth it to have a little piece of earth to call her own. Maybe someday she would get a nice patio set so she could sit out in the tree-filtered sunshine and read about fabulous people having wondrous adventures.

By the time she had finished planting, her back and knees were sore, and her hands were raw from digging in the dirt. The sun was still high in the sky; she had gotten a lot done today. She put the roast in the oven and had a quick shower to clean herself off. Amanda checked the clock. She still had an hour, maybe an hour and a half, to herself.

She dug the computer from its hiding place and sat down at the table with it. Inspired by her work in the yard, she began writing about the kind of garden she would love to have if she had the time and money. There would be sunflowers and hibiscus along the south wall, and roses to the east. A small waterfall would cascade down into a pond with those Japanese goldfish in it. There would be a small fire pit to keep you warm on chilly nights and to make s'mores. A bistro set, where you could enjoy a morning coffee while reading a romance novel, was set up under an ivy-covered trellis.

When she was done, she sat and read the words to herself and imagined it once more in her mind. She sighed. It was mostly a fantasy. They would never have the money to build anything near to what she wished she could have. I will plant some flowers this year, she decided. Maybe I could put something in that little patch of dirt beside the stairs.

Looking at the clock, she realized it was getting late. She put the computer away and put the potatoes on the stove. Bill would be home soon, and he would be angry if dinner wasn't ready.

Later that night, after they had gone to bed, she heard a scratching at the back door again. She knew if she didn't scare that cat away, he'd be showing up every night. As quietly as she could, she went into the kitchen and filled up a pot of water to dump on the unsuspecting feline. She opened the door and whispered, "Here, kitty, kitty. I've got something for you..." What she saw made her drop the pot to the ground.

It was the garden of her dreams, exactly as she had envisioned it. The furniture, the pond, the plants; it was all there. She watched as the long-stemmed plants gently rocked in the breeze. She heard the waterfall whisper its secrets in some forgotten tongue. The scents of the blossoming flowers combined into a perfume custom made for her. In the garden, the vegetables were a cornucopia of color, swollen and ready to burst with flavor. And everywhere there were fireflies and moths fluttering about, as if they were dancing with the moonlight to the sound of night crickets.

The cat, scared off by the falling pot, had retreated to the safety of the flowerbed near the pond. He seemed more interested in the fish now, and ignored Amanda.

She was delighted and amazed, but she was afraid, too. It was as if she were an intruder in someone else's home. Gradually, her fear overcame her sense of wonder, and she started to shake. "This can't be real," she cried. "This can't be happening."

Her heart pounding, Amanda ran back in the house and went straight back to bed. She lay awake for hours curled up in the blankets, like a little girl hiding from the monsters in the closet. Eventually, the adrenaline subsided and she slipped into a fitful sleep.

She woke, groggy and disoriented. It was just another day. She would put on her slippers, brush her teeth, and go make breakfast for Bill. As she walked into the bathroom a butterfly flew past the window, and she turned to look. Her eyes, which had been puffy and swollen, were wide open now. Through the glass, she could see the garden was still there. It hadn't been a dream. She drew the curtains closed and rushed out of the bathroom and into the kitchen.

Bursting through the back door she felt like she had entered a magical realm. What had been dream-like and wonderful in the moonlight, was starkly real but no less beautiful in the sun's glare. The flowers were dazzling in the varieties of their colors and shapes. Butterflies and honeybees were busy at work, and she thought she saw a hummingbird or two flitting about the hedges. It was impossible, yet it was there before her eyes.

She ran back inside and closed the door and curtains. There was no way she could explain this to Bill. All he would see was a waste of time and money when bills were going unpaid. He would never believe it just... happened. She would have to think of something, but first she would need to get him out of the house. She put a pot of coffee on and started cooking breakfast.

Bill seemed oblivious to the fact that something was wrong. He ate his breakfast in silence while Amanda sipped a cup of coffee. He got dressed and still he hadn't noticed. As she handed him his paper bag lunch, he kissed her on the cheek and said goodbye. She sighed heavily and slumped against the door. She had a few hours at least to figure out what to do. When she heard the car pull away, she went back out to the garden to consider her options.

Amanda still had trouble believing it was there. She watched as the sunlight sparkled off the waterfall, and the wind rustled the rose bushes. Even though it was still early spring, it was warm and inviting here, like it was somehow protected from the rest of the world. She was going to need another cup of coffee.

When she had filled her cup she came back outside and sat down at the patio table. She noticed a book there. It was the latest release from her favorite author. She thought she was going to have to wait months to check this out from the library, but here it was, her own copy in hardcover. Still, she didn't dare touch it in case it was somehow an illusion. Never having a thing was better than thinking you had it, only to find out you'd been deceived. If she didn't open it, she would never know, and she could go on pretending. She took another sip of her coffee.

She looked over to see the cat sitting on the grass, stalking a butterfly. This all began when I bought that computer, she thought. I wrote about a cat, and that night there was a cat. I wrote about a garden, and a garden appears. If that's true, I should be able to make anything appear just by writing about it. She went back into the house and pulled the laptop from the cupboard. She turned it on and began to write.

In the garden, a unicorn appeared. He was tall and magnificent, his shoulder rising up above her head. He was all white with a bushy mane, like a lion, but soft like the finest down. His single horn was as long as her arm, spiraling down to a fine point. But he would never harm her, as he was the most gentle and understanding of creatures.

She put the computer away and went back outside to enjoy the morning air. There, she thought, that will prove once and for all whether this is really happening or if I've just gone crazy. But in the meantime, I'm going to enjoy this. She picked up the novel from the table and started to read. Occasionally, she would glance around as if she expected the sound of hooves at any moment.

Later that night, she lay in bed unable to sleep. Even though she was tired and had not slept well for two nights, she could not fall asleep. She watched as the clock on the nightstand changed from 11:59 to 12:00. There was a rustle in the trees outside, as if a gust of wind had passed by the house. Suddenly, forgetting to even put her slippers on, Amanda jumped out of bed and ran to the back door. That was when she saw him. Exactly as she had described, there was a unicorn standing in her garden, nibbling on a stalk of the newly sprouted corn.

She couldn't breathe. Her heart pounded in her ears and throat. He was so beautiful, but he shouldn't be here, he couldn't be here. When the gentle giant lifted its head and looked at her she felt her will collapse. His eyes were so understanding and yet mournful, as if he knew the pain she was in. Amanda couldn't take it, and she closed the door.

In a panic, she pulled out the computer and deleted her stories. Not just the unicorn, but everything else as well. She heard a faint buzzing from outside, as if someone had disturbed a hive of bees, but she didn't dare look until it had passed. As she sat staring at a blank page, her mind tried to grapple with what she had seen. I just want a quiet life, she thought. I don't want magic gardens and unicorns. It's too much.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, she went to the window and looked outside. She half-expected the unicorn and the garden to still be there, but it was her old backyard with the crabgrass and the small patch of dirt where she had planted some vegetables just the day before. She was relieved, but she felt a little sad, as well.

She turned off the computer and closed the lid. She would take the laptop back tomorrow, she decided. That girl, Nancy, she would have to take it back. This was obviously meant for someone else. Someone braver than me. I'll have to wait until tomorrow night. It's Friday so Bill will start drinking early. When he passes out I'll sneak out and return it and get the ten dollars back. He'll never know it was here.

It would be just one more day and then she could have her old life back. She crawled back into bed and, thoroughly exhausted, fell fast asleep.

She awoke to Bill shaking her and yelling, "Wake up. You forgot to set the alarm. I'm going to be late for work."

"What? Oh, I'm so sorry. I'll make you breakfast right away." She threw back the covers and hurriedly put on her slippers. "It'll just be a few minutes."

"No, never mind," he grumbled. "I'll just have some toast and cereal. I have a performance evaluation today, and I can't be late."

"Let me put some coffee in a thermos for you," she said as she shuffled into the kitchen, "and I'll make you lunch before you go." She tried to have everything ready by the time Bill walked into the kitchen, but she had forgotten to plug in the toaster. Bill tucked in his shirt and tightened his belt before sitting down to eat. As she leaned over the toaster, she couldn't help but look out the window. There was nothing there but the same old backyard. The garden was now only a half-remembered dream. When the toast popped, she let out a little squeal and jumped back.

"What is wrong with you today?" asked Bill.

"Nothing," she answered as she buttered the toast. "I just slept in and now I'm in a rush."

"Hmm," he grumbled before going back to silently eating his cereal.

When he was gone, she breathed a sigh of relief. It would only be a few more hours and she would be rid of his cursed thing for good. She poured herself a cup of coffee and went outside to relax. The yard seemed empty now, and for a moment she missed having a comfortable place to sit. The back porch stairs seemed cold and hard to her now.

She spent the next few hours cleaning and doing the other chores she had neglected yesterday. The time passed quickly, and she was surprised to hear Bill's car pulling up in the driveway. She went to meet him at the door. He seemed furious.

"Well that's it!" he yelled. "They've laid me off. The bastards knew on Monday, but they waited the whole week to tell me so I wouldn't come in and make a fuss. At the rate they're going there's not going to be anyone at all left in a couple of weeks. They're putting themselves out of business."

"That's terrible," said Amanda, picking his jacket up off the floor. "What are we going to do for money?"

"Beats me. We have a little saved up, but once that runs out...I don't want to think about it right now. Go and get me a beer." Bill threw himself down on the couch and turned on the television.

"Of course, dear," said Amanda. "Right away." She got him his drink and made herself scarce. She didn't like to be around him when he was like this. There was too much of a chance she would do something that would set off his temper, and he would do something they would both regret later. She knew it would not be long until he was too drunk to stay awake, and he would fall asleep on the couch.

When she heard the tell-tale snoring coming from the living room, she made her way to the kitchen. As quietly as she could, she got the laptop from the cupboard, and tucked the bag under her arm. She would have to sneak by Bill to get out, but that wouldn't be a problem. He would be asleep for hours.

As she walked by him she couldn't help feel bad for him. He hadn't had an easy life and now he was out of work. The only things he really had that he could count on were his job, his house and his wife. He had already lost one, and if things didn't improve, they would soon lose their home. She wished she could do something to help. Amanda told herself that he wasn't a bad man, he's just not a good one.

She looked down at the bag and an idea occurred to her. Maybe this came to me for a reason. I could use it to help other people as well as myself. Emboldened by her new plan, she went back to the kitchen and set the computer on the table.

She started to imagine the kind of man she had always dreamed about. One who was brave and charming and...sober. He would be kind to animals and love to laugh. He had money but he would never be a snob about it, because he was generous, almost to a fault, and he was always a gentleman. But most importantly he loved his wife and doted on her, treating her like a queen.

"What are you doing?" came a voice from the kitchen doorway. Amanda looked up horrified. She had been caught. Why didn't I leave when I had the chance, she thought desperately.

"Where did you get that?" yelled Bill. He staggered into the kitchen. "What are you writing? Let me see!"

Paralyzed with fear, Amanda couldn't move to stop him from grabbing the laptop off the table. As he read the screen, the expression on his face changed to one of pure rage. "Is this what you think of me?" he screamed. "I work my fingers to the bone to provide for you, and this is how you repay me? You make fun of me behind my back? And you waste our precious money on this?" He threw the laptop against the far wall, where it bounced off the counter before skidding across the floor.

Amanda stood up and braced herself for what was to come. Still she was unprepared for the violence of the attack as the back of his hand struck her cheek, and it knocked her to the ground. He had never hit her that hard before. She was truly afraid of what he might do next. When she looked up she saw him taking off his belt.

"It looks like I'm going to have to teach you who's the boss around here," Bill slurred.

The next thing she knew, Amanda was lying on the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor. She looked around for Bill, but he was nowhere to be seen. Her body ached from the savage beating, but she found she could still move. There was blood from a cut on her scalp caked to the side of her face. She went to the sink to wash it off.

The clock on the stove said 11:46. She had been out for hours. She seriously considered going to the hospital, but that would mean a lot of questions. Even if Bill didn't go to jail, they would still probably lose what money they had on lawyers. They'd be homeless and broke. No, it was best to keep her mouth shut. Sometimes you just have to pick up the pieces and move on.

She looked at the broken laptop. It was useless now; she wouldn't even get the ten dollars back for it. She picked it up off the floor and looked at it. The screen and case were cracked from the impact. Out of curiosity, she pushed the power button. To her surprise, the cracks began to close and disappear. She watched as the spiderweb pattern on the screen grew smaller and disappeared. The laptop was the same as when she had bought it. She put it down on the table. It was all too much for her.

She went to look for her husband. He had drunk himself into a stupor and passed out in bed. She closed the bedroom door and went back to the kitchen. The clock now said 11:52. It was then a thought occurred to her, and she knew she had no choice. There was just enough time. She sat down at the table and began to write.

When midnight came, there was a brief sound like bees that quickly faded away to silence. Amanda packed up the computer and carried it to the front door. Waiting for her was a brand new expensive coat draped over a suitcase. She picked up the coat and put it on. She checked the pocket and found the plane ticket and a roll of hundred-dollar bills as she had expected. She pulled the handle on the suitcase up and let it roll behind her as she walked out the front door. As she walked to the waiting limousine, she didn't look back at the sad little house where she had spent so many years.

Perhaps, she thought, one day someone will be sitting in a garden reading a story about my adventures. She smiled at that.

# Unchanged

## Devlin

People say that things get easier as you get older, but Devlin believed that they only say that so you won't kill yourself. It was all a big lie. If anything, things got harder. It didn't help when your parents were constantly moving you from place to place. As if being black and gay wasn't enough of a trial for a teenager, every time Devlin felt like he was getting close to someone or someplace, the next week they were packing to move on to another town.

His mother and father had no idea. All his father could see was the next rung on the career ladder. Like being in the Air Force was some kind of path to success and wealth. Until a few years ago, they could barely keep up with the bills, but he just marched on, going where and doing what they told him. And his mother, she just went along with whatever he said, taking orders like she was one of the men under his command. They thought Devlin was going to a be a good little soldier one day, too. They were totally clueless.

"Where are you going? I made breakfast," his mother called out.

In his mind, Devlin was already out the door.

"I made all of your favorites. It's your sixteenth birthday, after all."

She got five points for being able to read a calendar, but those weren't his favorites, they were his father's. She'd never asked him what he liked or what he was interested in. No, she just assumed he was like his old man, right down to how he liked his eggs.

"I don't want to be late for my first day in a new school." That was a lie. He didn't want to go at all. "I'll just have some toast."

"You sit down and eat, young man," she said. "I went through a lot of trouble to cook you a meal, so the least you can do is enjoy it. I'll write you a note if I have to."

Always the martyr, his mother. He sat down. There was no point in arguing with someone who wasn't listening. He shoveled the food in so fast, He was sure he was going to give himself a stomach ache. At least the old man was already at work; he didn't think he could deal with their double-barrel criticism today. One shot to the heart was enough.

They ate in silence until his plate was clean. That was still the rule, like he was five years old. She didn't even have to say it, it was just assumed. Finish your vegetables or no dessert.

Two more years. It was still two more years until he could move away to New York. Or Paris. Anywhere but here. He didn't know if he was going to make it. He got up to leave. "Thank you for breakfast. I've got to go."

"Be sure you come straight home after school."

"All right." With that, he was out the door. The school was a ten minute walk, so that was ten minutes of anxiety. The same questions kept running through his head. Would he make any friends? Would he get his ass kicked by some jock looking to score points with his idiot friends? Would the teacher single him out and embarrass him in front of the whole class? That was a lot to worry about in just ten minutes. He thought he was going to be sick. He had told his mother he didn't want to eat anything.

When he got to the school, he realized it was just like every other one he'd been to in the last decade with its long corridors filled with lockers and stupid trophy cases that no one ever looks at. They gave him a locker and some books and a schedule. It was like he never left his last school, they just filled it with a bunch of new people when he wasn't looking.

At least it looked like the day was going to pass without any kind of drama. Then he met Darren, and everything changed. He was a skinny kid with curly blonde hair. He wasn't much to look at, but Devlin had always been a sucker for the underdog. Of course, he immediately fell hopelessly in love with him.

He was trying to work up the nerve to say something to him when three big seniors surrounded Darren and started pushing him around. They call him a queer and a faggot and pushed him up against the lockers. Just once, Devlin wanted these assholes to see how much they hurt people just to make themselves feel better.

Something in him snapped, and he ran toward them. He grabbed the nearest one and pulled him off. He seems surprised, like no one had ever stood up to him before. He wasn't important though, he was just a follower. It was the big one in the middle Devlin wanted. He looked him in the eyes and told him right to his face, "Back off."

"What do we have here?" He laughed and pushed Devlin. "Who's your little faggot boyfriend, Darren?"

"I said, back off!" Devlin pushed him back with both arms and there was a sudden blinding light, like a flash had gone off in his face. He staggered back like he'd been slapped in the face it was so strong. When he came to his senses, everything seemed strange, like he was trapped in a dream.

A bunch of kids were gathered around the big teenager. They were calling him names, and taking turns kicking and punching him. But he wasn't getting angry; he was terrified. He looked so embarrassed and humiliated, Devlin started to feel sorry for him. The kid went down on the ground, but they didn't stop kicking him. When he started to cry, Devlin wanted to weep as well.

There was another flash of light, and the big kid was standing in front of him again, like no time had passed. The expression on his face changed from gleeful cruelty to a mix of fear and disgust. He pushed Devlin away and took a couple of steps back. "Get away from me!" he said, before walking off with his friends in tow.

"I didn't need your help," said Darren. "Now, it'll just be worse next time." He slammed his locker closed and walked away too.

Devlin was making a great first impression, but he didn't care about the boy's ingratitude. He needed to figure out what had happened to him. Was all that real or just in his head? Was he completely losing it?

He walked into the washroom to pull himself together away from the prying eyes and gossiping mouths of the other students. As if he didn't have enough problems in his life, now he was having hallucinations or something. That would make the old man proud, to have his only son be a total mental case. The thought made him smile, and he felt a little better.

The only way to be sure was to try to do it again. It seemed to happen when Devlin touched him, but he couldn't go around groping random people. That was a sure way to get his ass handed to him, if not expelled from school. If it wasn't his first day here, there might be someone he could talk to. As it was, there was no one he could trust. He hated feeling so alone.

He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye before it had a chance to fall. His father's voice rang in his ears. Always be strong. Never let them see you as weak. He tried to choke the feelings, but he was only half-successful at best.

He heard the door open and turned to see that boy Darren come in. He looked at Devlin like he had something to say, but turned toward the urinals instead. Devlin splashed some water on his face to hide the tears. The last thing he needed now was another scene. He heard the urinal flush as he was drying his hands and face. There were footsteps coming up behind him.

"Look," said Darren, hesitantly, "I'm sorry if I overreacted a bit back there. That guy's been hassling me since the fifth grade. Anything I ever did to try to stop him has only made it worse. So just let it be, all right?"

Devlin turned around to face him. "Okay, if that's what you want," he said, "but you shouldn't let anyone push you around like that."

"I'm sure he's more interested in bothering you now. He really doesn't like it when people stand up to him."

"I'm not worried," answered Devlin. "I've seen a dozen guys like that and they're all cowards underneath. Besides, I have a brown belt in karate." It was only a blue belt, but Darren didn't have to know that.

"Maybe so, but the rest of us don't. So just leave him alone, or he's just going to take it out on us."

"Fine," said Devlin. "Sorry. I just saw him pushing you around and I reacted." He gave the kid the once-over. He'd be something to look at if he bulked up a little and got a decent haircut. "Maybe we got off on the wrong foot." He held out his hand for him and smiled. "I'm Devlin."

Teenagers didn't usually shake hands, and it was a little awkward. Hesitantly, he reached out and took Devlin's hand in his. "I'm Darren."

There was another flash of light and Devlin was standing in the bathroom, alone and looking at himself in the mirror. Only it wasn't his face, it was Darren's. He was in Darren's body, looking out from his eyes. He felt the panic as they rushed out the door into the hallway. Devlin wasn't in control; He was just a passenger, seeing what Darren saw and feeling what he felt.

"Darren, it's going to be okay," he tried to call out, but he had no voice, no way to reach him. Their shoes squeaked and echoed loudly in the empty hallway. Something was wrong here. It was lunch hour and the hallways should be full of students. They stopped and listened. There was no sound except the steady drone of the air conditioning and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead. It felt spooky to be there alone. They headed toward the exit.

If anything, it was worse outside. The absence of the traffic is the first thing they noticed. You don't realize it until it's gone, but there is always a constant hum caused by so many vehicles moving about at the same time. It's a vibration that you feel as much as hear. Without that sound, the city felt like a dead husk. There was nothing except the wind rustling through the trees and the occasional bird or squirrel, going about its business. There were no people anywhere.

They rushed down the street toward the strip malls and apartment blocks. Surely there would be someone there. They looked in the windows but they couldn't find any one. There was no damage. There were no bodies in the streets, not even empty piles of clothes. It was like, all at once, everyone just decided to leave. They were completely and utterly alone.

That's when it struck him. That was what he was feeling before he touched Darren. Somehow his own sense of loneliness had been transformed into this vision. He got it now. In his thoughts he tried to call out, "It's not real." Darren still didn't hear him, though. Devlin guessed that in his mind, he must be completely alone. He didn't want to torture the kid anymore, but he wasn't sure how to end this.

Once more there was a flash, and he was back, standing in the washroom shaking Darren's hand, his eyes wide in disbelief. That answered Devlin's other question then. Darren had seen and remembered the vision too. He snatched his hand away and just stared at Devlin with a mixture of terror and revulsion on his face. Without a word, he ran out the door. Not knowing what to say either, Devlin just let him go.

By this time tomorrow, everyone in school would think he was some kind of freak. Even if he laid low and never touched anyone again, there was still going to be a stigma. Everyone would avoid him like the plague. He had just accomplished the exact opposite of what he wanted.

He couldn't take it anymore. He had to get out of there. Devlin walked out of the washroom and straight outside. He didn't lift his head or make eye contact with anyone. There was nobody here to even say goodbye to.

When he got outside, however, he realized that he had nowhere to go. He couldn't stay at school and he couldn't go home, at least not yet. Frustrated, he picked a direction and started walking.

After a couple of hours, he started to regret skipping lunch. He realized he haven't eaten anything since breakfast, and his stomach was starting to growl. There was a convenience store up ahead, so he decided to get something there and then head home. It wasn't like he wanted to go home, but there was going to be major guilt if he didn't. He just hoped his parents didn't hear about what happened at school. If he could play the whole thing down and fly under the radar, then maybe he could ride it out until next year when they moved again.

He picked out a chocolate bar and got an apple juice from the back. The clerk was passing the time reading a magazine. He put it down as Devlin walked up to the counter and waited impatiently as Devlin dug in his pockets for some money. As the clerk dropped the change in Devlin's outstretched hand, the guy's fingers brushed against his palm, and he felt a tingling, like a static shock, run through his arm. He quickly pulled it away. The guy behind the counter didn't seem to notice, but instead started to eat everything on the counter.

"Dude," asked Devlin, "are you all right?"

"It's the weirdest thing," he mumbled in between bites, "I'm suddenly starving."

"Don't you have to pay for that?" he asked, but the guy was ignoring Devlin now, like the guy was lost in some kind of feeding frenzy. He barely stopped to open the packages before shoving the food in his mouth. Devlin threw the juice and candy in his backpack and got out of there as fast as he could.

He put up his hood and pulled his sleeves down over his hands. With his arms crossed he made his way down the street toward home. He needed a safe place to sit and think, and right now he couldn't think of a better place than his room. He tried to make himself invisible as he made his way down the street. It seemed like everyone he passed wanted to bump into him. He must have looked like some kind of a lunatic dodging out of the way, trying not to let anyone touch him.

He recognized a couple of girls from that morning at school. They saw him and crossed to the other side of the street. They weren't pointing and laughing, but he could tell they would as soon as they thought he couldn't hear. Teenage girls were the cruelest creatures on the planet. He walked faster to get away from them. Was this the torture he was going to have to endure everyday at school? He didn't think he could take it.

Finally, he got to his front door. He walked in, trying to act as if nothing was wrong. Halfway to his room, his mother ambushed him in the hallway. "The school called. They said you missed three classes today. They wanted to know if you went home sick. I had to tell them I didn't know anything about it. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I...I can't talk about it right now." he tried to push past her and get to his room, but she was blocking the way.

"Oh no you don't. You're not going to go hide in your room like you always do. I need an explanation, mister."

He couldn't tell her the truth. She'd think he was on drugs. "I wasn't feeling well," he said, "so I went for a walk to clear my head." That wasn't entirely true, but it was close enough.

"They also told me you were fighting with another student," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "This isn't going to be like Philadelphia, you know. You're a lot older now. If you hurt someone, you might even go to jail this time."

"I told you a million times. That was an accident. I can't believe you'd bring that up now."

"They might even sue us, and we could lose our life savings. Is that what you want? To put your poor mother out on the street?"

"God, I can't talk to you when you're like this."

"You ungrateful little brat," she cried. "After all I've done for you."

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

She reached out to grab his arm. He tried to pull away but he was too slow. She said, "You're not going anywhere until...", but then the light went out of her eyes. Her whole body relaxed and she just walked away, like he wasn't even there.

"Mom?" he called, but she didn't answer. He threw his backpack in his room before going after her. "Mom?"

He found her sitting at the dining room table pouring a glass of scotch. He kept calling out to her, but she acted like she couldn't hear him. She only took a sip from the glass and stared off into space.

"Devlin. What is going on here?"

In all the commotion, he hadn't heard his father come home. He didn't think he'd ever seen him so angry. "Devlin, your mother had to call me at the base. She was worried sick. What's this I hear about you skipping school?"

He sighed. "I wasn't feeling well, so I left early. That's all there was to it."

"That certainly is not all there was to it," he barked back at him. "If you were sick you should have gone to the nurse, or at least called your mother. You don't just walk out of school whenever you feel like it."

He knew the answer by rote. "Yes, sir. You're absolutely right. I won't let it happen again."

"Don't you be smart with me, young man."

He surrendered. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"But I think the real reason you left was because you got in a fight. Didn't I teach you better than that?"

"He started it. He was..."

His father cut him off again. "I don't care. It's the first day of school and you're already skipping classes, getting into fights, and then lying about it. I'm beginning to regret not sending you to a military school."

Devlin would jump in front of a bus before he went to a military school. "Look, if you'll just let me explain..."

"Start by explaining why you want to cause your mother and I so much grief. Why she works hard to...Sharon, is that my good scotch?"

She shrugged and took another sip from the glass, but she didn't even seem aware of what was going on.

He couldn't take it anymore. He yelled, "You care more about your damn scotch than you do me!"

"Now, that's not true. If you had any idea..."

Just once he would like his father to understand what it's like to be him. Then it suddenly occurred to him. He could make him understand. "I wish you could feel what I feel," he said, and he grabbed his father's arm. He saw the look of surprise in his father's eyes just before the bright flash of light pulled him into the dream.

He saw his whole life unfolding before him. He saw himself in the middle of it all, but in his heart he knew that it wasn't him but his father as a teenager in his place. Devlin was just a ghost standing off to one side, observing but unable to act.

He was watching his earliest memories of his mom fighting with him, how bored he was in his second grade math class, how sad he was when their dog, Trooper, had died. There was his first real crush, Kevin, and how he had punched him in the nose when he tried to kiss him. Every friend he had made and lost because of his father's career, and every bully that had tried to pick a fight when they found out he was gay, they all made an appearance.

He took a secret joy every time he saw his father raise his hand against him for defying him, because now he was to live through the pain and indignity of hitting himself, over and over again. Finally, the events of today with Darren, the clerk and his mom played out, and he reached once again for his father's arm. The light pulled them back to the real world.

His father was breathing hard and trembling. He collapsed heavily on to one of the dining room chairs, nudging the table so the candle in the centerpiece fell over. "My own son," he said. "You're one of them."

It's hard to hide his indignation at this point. "Don't act so surprised," said Devlin. "When have you ever seen me with a girl?"

"No," he said, "you don't understand. There's something inside you. Something evil. I can't explain what, but it's making you do things against your will."

Evil. That was a little melodramatic, even for his father. "What do you mean?" he asked. "What's inside of me."

But his father was ignoring him, like he wasn't even there. Typical. He hasn't learned a thing. To him, Devlin was just another problem to be solved, another item to check off his list. He stood up and reached for the phone in his pocket. "There are people at the base who are trained for this sort of thing. I just need to make a call."

"So that's your answer. Just dump your problems on someone else. You never take responsibility for your own mistakes."

"You're not a mistake, son," he said, slowly backing away from him. "I just need to get you some help."

"I know I'm not a mistake," he cry. "I like me the way I am. Why can't you?"

His father took his phone out and started dialing. "I just need you to stay calm. We can find a way to fix this, I know we can."

Devlin couldn't believe what he was seeing. "You would turn your own son over to the military so they can experiment on me? What kind of monster are you?" A sudden rage overcame him and he rushed forward. "You should be ashamed of yourself!"

He swung his fist at his father's face, but he blocked it with his free hand. That contact was long enough, however. He dropped the phone and fell to the floor sobbing. As Devlin watched this man he had feared for so long, and even loved once, he couldn't help feeling anything but contempt.

He heard a distant, tinny whisper, "Hello...hello...is there anybody there?" He looked down to find the source of the voice. His father had completed the call. Devlin knew he didn't have much time until someone came to investigate.

He ran back to his room and opened up his backpack, dumping out his school books on to the floor. Grabbing socks, underwear, a few t-shirts, an extra pair of jeans, and his laptop, he stuffed them in the bag and then made a quick stop by the bathroom for his toothbrush and deodorant.

His mother was still sitting at the table, in front of a now empty glass. She looked lost and confused, and he suddenly felt sorry for her. In some ways, she was a victim too. He didn't want to leave her like this, but he wasn't sure what he could do. Today might be the last time he saw her, and he knew he would regret not saying goodbye.

He walked around the table, bent over, and gave her a kiss on the head. Her eyes came back to life, she saw him standing over her, and she then looked down at her husband on the floor. She stood up and gave him a hug, the kind she used to give him when he was a little boy. "There's a couple of hundred dollars in a plastic bag in the flour canister on the kitchen counter.

"Mom..."

"And here," she said, pulling off her earrings, "take these. They're real diamonds. Don't take anything less than four hundred dollars for them. Now go, and don't try to call. They'll be watching the house."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't want it to be this way."

She looked at him with a kind of wisdom that he'd never seen in her, and said, "Things never turn out the way you plan, dear. That's why we have each other. To help us get through the bad times. I love you, but now it's time for you to go." She hugged him again and parted his hair before bending down to help his father.

He wasn't sure if that's what she really felt, or if it was something he did to her. Either way he was glad it happened. Sometimes you just need to hear that someone loves you. "I love you too, mom," he manage to say before turned and walked away.

As Devlin headed out the door, he heard his father call out through his tears, "I was trying to make you strong."

He said the only thing he could think of. "That doesn't make it right."

A few hours later, he was sitting on a bus with little more than the clothes on his back. He wasn't sure where he was going or how he would live once he got there, but for the moment he was free. The only thing he knew for certain was that it was going to be a long ride.

He just hoped no one sat next to him.

# Unspoken

## Sophie

The sleepy backwater town had little to offer a dog. The people were unfriendly toward strays and kept their distance, and the boys sometimes threw rocks at her. The only decent meals she could find were by scrounging along the main strip, but even the good bits were starting to rot in the heat of a warm spring morning.

She had been digging through the garbage for scraps behind a diner when Sophie had first heard about the lost boy. Through the open back door, she heard a radio in the kitchen telling the story of how he had wandered off during a family picnic two days ago. His younger sister had been suffering from a severe allergic reaction to a wasp sting. She was recovering in the hospital, but in the confusion and rush to save her life, the boy had gone missing.

Sophie knew that this was her chance to get off the streets. Getting adopted into a nice family would be far better than nosing through rancid grease and table scraps for a bit of meat and bone. As smart as she was, she'd be able to find him in no time. Then it would be regular meals and a roof to sleep under – things she hadn't known since she was a puppy. All she would have to do was find him alive before anyone else did.

She skirted the edge of the woods until she found the place where the boy had last been seen. The light breeze and the soft grass on her paws were a welcome relief from the hot asphalt of the town's back alleys. She would have preferred to spend more time running between the trees, but getting enough to eat was a full-time job. Going through garbage was easier than hunting for her food, even if she did nearly get caught by the occasional homeowner.

It took her until mid-morning to find the campground where the family had been having their outing. The picnic site was deserted, but it had been trampled in the past few days by dozens of people, all of them leaving their scents behind. When you factored in last night's heavy rain, that made it impossible to pick out which trail to follow.

In the distance, she saw cars parked at the side of the road. There were some men milling about looking at maps, and she could hear another group along with a couple of dogs tromping through the brush as they looked in vain for the boy. She knew if he was anywhere near here, they would have found him already.

Most of the men wore hiking gear, but a few were obviously police. Men in uniforms had never been kind to her, so she kept her distance. If they saw her wandering around, they'd likely lock her up just for being a stray. There were a few reporters wandering about with cameras as well, but they seemed more interested in finding a good headline than a lost child.

Sophie figured that they hadn't found him yet because they were wrong about where he had gone into the woods. She headed away from the search parties until she came to a patch of ground which hadn't been trampled yet. Not far beyond, a set of railroad tracks cut through the forest. On the far side, the brush grew in dense thickets making travel almost impossible.

She knew that boys loved trains, so she guessed that he might have followed the rails. She checked to the northwest for an hour or so but didn't pick up any trail. There was nothing this way but more trees, and the smell of grease and creosote from the rail ties. Boys were messy at the best of times, and there was no trace of him here.

That was an hour wasted going the wrong way, and another half-an-hour to rush back to the start. It was already early afternoon; the boy was running out of time. She skirted around the cars, trying to avoid being noticed, and started heading down the tracks in the opposite direction. It wasn't long before she was alone again, the sounds of the searchers fading into the background noises of rustling leaves and chirping birds.

After thirty minutes, she got her first whiff of what might be the boy and knew she was headed in the right direction. An hour later, the first shower of the day started to fall. It was just a light drizzle, something she would hardly even notice on any other day. The clouds threatened much worse though, so she picked up her pace. Not only would the weather leave the boy more vulnerable to exposure, it would wash away any trace of him. She would have to hurry now.

It was the weather, however, that gave Sophie her first big break. A bridge where the tracks passed over a creek offered a temporary refuge. The water was swollen from spring showers, but there was still room to find shelter underneath. When she ducked in to shake off the rain, she found what looked like an improvised bed in the long grass and dead leaves. It was too small for an adult, so it was unlikely to be the squat of some homeless guy. It also lacked the musky smell of an adult human, and there were hints of laundry soap and licorice, scents you wouldn't normally find on a bum. She was getting close, and now she had his scent.

From the bridge, she could see that the tracks eventually went out into the empty countryside. Beyond that was the outskirts of a large city, but that was a full day's walk through mostly open country. If the boy had gone that way, he would have been spotted, or he would have come across one of the scattered farmhouses that she knew would be out there among the fields. Likewise, he couldn't have gone back down the tracks the way he came or he would have run into the search parties. That meant he was still in the woods, and he couldn't have gotten far.

The banks of the creek were soft and muddy, and they showed no signs of being recently traveled by anything bigger than a raccoon. Sophie skirted along the woods by the tracks until she found a deer trail through the thick brush. Some fibers caught on the branch of a sapling confirmed that he had gone that way.

Why he would dart off into the trees instead of following the tracks back, she didn't know. Human beings are funny like that sometimes, especially when they're young. They don't always do what's best for themselves, even when it's obvious. He was most likely starving, and went off in search of food. Or maybe something had scared him, and he had run off.

Twenty minutes later, she found him at the bottom of a steep-sided gully, half-buried under a rock slide. The boy didn't look hurt, but it could have been a different story under the rubble. He was awake and softly whimpering, so that was a good sign. When he saw Sophie, he started to stir back to life and cry. She bent down and licked his face to comfort him.

She could have tried to dig him out, but that might bring the unstable bank down on top of both of them. Grabbing his shirt in her teeth, she gave a tug, but he was stuck tight and no amount of pulling was going to get him free. She had to face the fact that she was going to need help.

When she tried to get back up the boy wouldn't let her go. Fear and adrenaline had made him lock his arms around her neck in a death grip that she couldn't pull away from. No matter how she twisted and squirmed, she couldn't break free of his hold. His embrace was so tight that she was having a hard time breathing. She panicked and blurted out, "Let go of me."

The boy released his grip so suddenly that she staggered back and nearly fell over. She saw the look in his eyes change from pain and fear to astonishment. "You can talk!" he shouted.

She just looked at him with a blank expression. Maybe, he would think he had just imagined it.

"I know I heard you talk," he said. "Say something else. Please."

Sophie knew the damage was done. He was only six or seven years old, still a pup in human terms, so if he told anyone they would think he was just hearing things because of the fear and cold. She took one quick look around just to make sure they were alone. "You look like you've never seen a talking dog before."

"I knew it," he squealed. "You can talk."

"Don't get too excited, kid," she said. "This is a one-time-only deal." Talking was always hard. Her lips, teeth, and tongue weren't designed for it. It was really more of a coherent whine, kind of like someone with a mouth full of peanut butter, but you could understand her if you tried.

"Help me," the boy said. "I'm stuck."

"The rocks are too heavy," she said. "If I try to dig you out, the rocks could fall and kill you. You know what dead means, don't you."

"Yeah," he said, halfheartedly.

"Dead is forever. No more playing. No more ice cream. No more Mom and Dad." She could see he was too young to fully grasp it, and she was just making him more scared. "Stay still. I'm going to go and get help."

"No," he cries, "don't leave me, boy."

"Girl," she answered, a little indignantly. "My name is Sophie. What's your name?"

"Trevor."

"Okay, Trevor. I need you to be a brave pup and stay there a little while longer. Can you do that for me?"

"I wanna go home," he whined.

"I know you do," said Sophie, "but if I leave now and get help you could sleep in your own bed tonight. Would you like that?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be back before you know it. I just need to borrow this." She scooped up the boy's baseball cap which had fallen a few feet away. She could hear him start to cry, but she couldn't waste any more time consoling him. She had to go now if she was going to bring someone back before it got dark.

Sophie ran back down the path to the railroad tracks. From there, she headed straight back to the road where she had seen the search party. The shadows were already starting to get long when she got to the cars. She hung back for a minute, trying to pick the best person to approach. There were a couple of old women standing around talking to each other. A younger woman, pacing back and forth, fretted helplessly.

The only other choice was the rotund cop. He was sipping coffee and pretending to look at a map while leaning against his cruiser. Probably, he had been too out of shape to go running through the woods all day, so the others had left him behind to coordinate the search. He did have a radio, however, and could call for someone more capable. She made her choice. Despite her aversion to uniforms, he was still the one who could get help to the boy the quickest.

She shook off the rain before trotting up to the car and dropping the hat on the ground. She barked a couple of times to get his attention, but he didn't even look up. She barked again. Finally, the cop glanced at her and barked back, "Go on, get out of here." He waved her away with his hand.

She considered biting him, but then remembered he had a gun. He was obviously as thick in the head as he was in the belly. She decided to try someone else.

The younger woman was nearest, so she approached her with the hat. As she got closer, she realized her scent was on the boys clothes, faint but there. This must be the mother. She should have come to her first. If anyone would recognize the cap, it's her. She lifted her eyes up as Sophie came closer, then they went wide with recognition.

"Where did you get that?!" She took the hat from Sophie's mouth and took a second look at it. "Andy!" she called to the cop. "Andy, this dog has Trevor's hat!"

Agonizingly slow, Andy the cop started walking over, but the woman was too impatient and went over to him instead.

"What's this you say about Trevor's hat?" he asked.

"It's his hat," she answered, "I'm sure of it. I bought it for him less than a month ago. He's always losing them."

"Are you sure it's the one he was wearing?" Andy turned it over in his hands. "It could belong to anyone."

"No, I wrote his name in it." She folded up the rim. "There, you see."

Sophie thought those people were going to stand there and talk forever. There was a kid trapped under a rock slide, meanwhile they went on about his hat for five minutes. She would have to take matters into her own paws again. She walked back toward the tracks, turned around and barked at them.

"I think he wants us to follow him," said the mother.

Once again Sophie wondered why people couldn't tell the difference between males and females. To her, it was a wonder they were able to reproduce at all. A dog would never make that mistake. She sometimes wished that she could just talk to them, but every time she tried they always freaked out and started talking about how much money they could make from a talking dog. Like they could just sell her like she was a frozen turkey. She wasn't going to wind up in some sideshow or worse. She barked again.

"Now hang on a minute there, Lucy. I can't pull everyone off the grid search just because a dog found a hat. We don't know anything about this mutt."

"I don't care. It's the best lead we've had. If you're not going to go check it out then I will."

"Just wait," he said. He waddled over to the open trunk of the cruiser. "If you have to go take a flashlight and a radio. Check in every fifteen minutes. If you don't find anything in an hour you come straight back here. I don't want you wandering around in the dark by yourself. Scott would never forgive me if we lost you too."

"Thank you, Andy."

"Don't go getting your hopes up now. It's probably nothing. But if you do find something, you can mark the trail with this." He peeled off a few feet of police tape and handed that to her as well.

Sophie barked a third time and started walking back to the tracks. Finally the mother started following and they were off. The sun was just beginning to set when Sophie got back to the gully where she had left the boy.

"You came back," he cried. "I knew you would."

"Trevor?!"

"Mom! I'm over here."

"Oh, Trevor. Are you okay? We were so worried about you."

"I think so. I can't move."

"That's okay, baby. I'm going to get help. We'll have you out of there in no time." She used the radio to contact Andy the cop and told them to bring help.

Satisfied at a job well done, Sophie laid down in the grass to wait for her reward. It would be nice to be fed every day and sleep inside on a bed. Most dogs didn't know how easy they had it.

"Mommy. Can we keep Sophie?"

"Oh," she said, "you already named the dog, I see."

"She told me that's what her name was," he answered.

"Of course she did," she said, patting the boy on the head. "I don't see why not. We'll have her checked out by the vet. And of course we'll need to have her fixed."

Sophie's ears perked up at that last word. The one thing she was certain of was that she wasn't going to get cut up just to get a free meal. If they thought that she was going to put up with that, they had another thing coming. A girl's got a right to choose, after all, even if she is a bitch.

She got up and started heading back down the path before the others could show up. Sophie could hear the boy's cries and the mother calling after her, but she just ignored them. Turning toward the city, she set off at a run. There were some good scents coming from that way, and she wanted to go check them out.

# Unmistakable

## Chris

There was an urban myth that if something strange and unexplainable started happening to you, men in black SUVs would come and take you away. The stories were often told about someone who woke up one morning and could suddenly speak every language or could turn the lights on just by thinking about them. As soon as you started showing off your new talents, nondescript men would show up and cart you off to a secret base for testing and dissection. It had become a sort of running gag, the sort of thing you would tell naughty children to get them to behave. Don't step out of line, or the government will come to take you away.

Chris didn't know if the stories were true, but she was going to play it safe and not tell anyone what was happening to her. She was smart enough to know that there was nothing a doctor could do to help. This wasn't something that could be cured with a course of antibiotics. At best they would poke and prod her until they ran out of tests and had to start making up new ones. She wasn't going to spend the rest of her life as a guinea pig to satisfy some whackjob's scientific curiosity. If someone out there had an answer to her problem, she would just have to find them, but she would do it on her own terms.

She stood naked in front of the mirror and waited. Chris knew it wouldn't be long now. She could already feel her skin beginning to crawl and itch. This time was worse than most, and that always meant a big change. She wondered how many more days she would be able to endure before she went completely mad.

Her watch began to chirp, a five-minute warning to give her a chance to prepare. One of the strangest parts of her ordeal was that it happened every day at precisely six-twenty-two in the morning. She jabbed the button to silence the alarm. Chris hated waking up to the pain, preferring at least a few minutes to prepare herself. After a couple of months of agonizing wake-up calls, however, sleeping in late was just one more part of her life that she had given up on, and she rarely needed the reminder anymore.

The first time the change had hit her, she'd thought she was dying. It was a burning that started deep inside and quickly spread out to all her extremities. She closed her eyes and braced herself against the sink. It took only a minute or two, but the searing pain was so intense it could have been a whole lifetime. She tried to blank out her mind to separate herself from the pain. It was the only thing that kept her from screaming. Finally, the fire in her muscles started to wane, and she felt like she could breathe again.

It was always a bit disconcerting to see a different face looking back at you in the mirror, but it was doubly so when you open your eyes and see a man's face. In the beginning, there had been only small alterations, like a slightly different nose or longer fingers. She had been able to hide them without too much trouble. Within a month, however, her whole body was changing. Every third or fourth time she would change into a man, although lately it seemed to her that it was happening more often. She guessed it would be a fifty-fifty split within another month or so at the most.

Chris appeared to be a middle-aged man, with a somewhat haggard look about him. She regarded today's face with some relief, not because it was particularly handsome – it was actually quite plain and ordinary – but because what she had to do would be easier as a man. It was a bit of a double standard, but when it came to violence, or even the threat of violence, people always took a man more seriously. Not that it really made a difference anymore. A child could kill a bodybuilder if you gave him a gun, but people still felt more intimidated by men. Thousands of years of conditioning doesn't disappear overnight.

She took a hot shower to ease her muscles before walking over to her bedroom closet. Although her weight didn't change, things got moved around, especially when she was a man. Sometimes she was short and stocky with wide hips, and the next day she would be tall and thin. It hadn't been long before none of her clothes had fit. Fortunately, she had put her name as Chris on her credit cards, not Christine, so she had managed to pick up a few t-shirts and cargo pants to fit her male bodies. She found a set that fit the best and got dressed.

Clothes were the least of her problems though. It had become clear after the first couple of days that she wouldn't be able to go to work anymore. She'd began to change so much that she would be lucky to pass for her own sister. At first, she had called in sick, but after a week she had just given up and quit. Her friends had called and banged on her door a few times, but Chris just ignored them. By then, she was spending most of the day curled up in bed just wishing it would all end. Accepting that her condition was not going to go away anytime soon, Chris had finally sent out an email that she'd moved to New York to start a new life. The calls had stopped, and she was alone. Under the circumstances it seemed like the best solution.

No job meant no money, however, and the bills were starting to pile up. Try as she might, she couldn't think of a way to get enough money to keep from being tossed out on the street. She needed cash now, and that left her with only one choice. She was going to have to rob a bank.

The only problem was she couldn't buy a gun, not legally anyways. Her photo ID had someone else's face on it now. Even if she'd had an ID, with the mandatory waiting period she would be a different person after a few days. She was not above paying some thug for a stolen piece. The trouble was she didn't know any. Wandering around the streets asking people at random would likely get her killed, or at least arrested. Then one night after watching the news, she had come up with a solution.

The suicide vest had sat on her kitchen table for three days. It had taken her that long to work up her courage to the point of considering going through with it. She had barely slept, expecting riot police to come bursting through the door at any minute, but they never did. All that worrying was for nothing. The bomb wasn't even real. The whole plan was a bluff. It was just an old apron she had sewn together and some PVC pipe stuffed with sand, but it was convincing if you didn't look too closely.

She wished she still had some alcohol in the house, but that had been the first thing to go after the money had dried up. All that was left were the empty bottles that still littered her apartment. If she drank herself into a stupor, the change didn't hurt as bad. Once or twice, she had even slept through it, but the hangover had been almost as bad.

She needed to be sober anyway. There was still the final wiring to do, so she sat down at the table and got to work. It was almost noon by the time she had finished. She rested the vest on the table and stared at it, still not quite believing what she was about to do. She told herself it was the perfect crime. The police would be looking for someone who no longer existed after tomorrow morning. Either that, or the cops would shoot her dead, and at least it would be over.

Her growling stomach sent her off in search of food. She couldn't find anything but the last three slices of bread and a bit of peanut butter. She made some toast, and turned on the radio. She sat and listened for a while, letting the music wash over her as she tried to make her peace. After an hour that seemed like a year, she was more determined than afraid. She took a deep breath and let it out. It was time.

Chris put on the bomb and adjusted the straps until it felt comfortable – at least as comfortable as an explosive vest can be. There was one last check to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything, and then she put on a jacket and headed outside. It was warm for spring, and Chris began to sweat, as much from nerves as from wearing so bulky a jacket. She walked briskly down the street, trying not to show how scared she was.

It was only a couple of blocks to the bank, and Chris covered the distance in no time. It wasn't until she was standing in front of the doors that she felt her resolve begin to fail again. There were still too many people inside, she told herself. She would just wait a little longer until it cleared out. When three people left, that's when she would go.

Across the street, she found a bench and sat down. She watched and waited. An old woman in a blue dress and an umbrella was the first to leave. She was quickly followed by a middle-aged man in a dress shirt, in a hurry to be somewhere else. Then a man in his early twenties went inside but came out a minute or so later, probably just using the ATM. Chris groaned softly. One more and she would go in. One minute went by and then another. At long last, a petite woman with short black hair came out, casually swinging a shopping bag from one hand.

Chris stood up and marched across the street. Walking straight into the bank, she headed toward the tellers. She was dismayed to find that two people were still waiting in line. She wondered why they couldn't put another teller on. Didn't they know she was in a hurry? She had to stifle a nervous laugh. Not wanting to draw attention to her self, she got into line, standing a couple of feet back from the last customer with her arms folded over her chest. It was cool in the bank, and the sweat under her jacket was starting to give her chills.

Five minutes later she was standing in front of the teller. Chris passed her a note.

I have a bomb

Put $10000 in a bag

No police or we all die

She unzipped her jacket to show the teller it was not a joke. The woman's eyes opened wide as she saw the wires and explosives. She folded the note back up and put it down on the counter, as if that would make it go away. Finally she said, "I'm sorry. I can't do that."

"What?" Chris answered. Remembering that she looked like a man, she was suddenly aware that she didn't know what expression she could make with this face that would be most intimidating. She regretted not practicing in the mirror. Chris furrowed her brow and scowled, hoping that was the look she was going for. "It's real simple," she whispered. "Bomb. Money. Bag. Now."

"You don't understand," she whispered back. "I don't have any money. The computer will only dispense money if it's drawn on a valid account. There's nothing I can do." The teller started to whimper, certain she had doomed everyone here.

"What about the vault?"

She was growing more distressed every moment. "That's all locked up. Only the manager can open it."

Chris realized this was not going to be as easy as she thought. "Well, get him to open it then." As the teller started to walk away Chris called her back. "Here. Take the note with you." She watched as the woman went over to another woman sitting at a desk, and handed her the note. They both looked over at Chris, so she scowled menacingly back. At least she hoped she was scowling.

The manager told the teller to sit down at the desk, and then disappeared into the back. One minute passed, and then another. That was when Chris heard the siren outside. She knew that her bluff was about to be called, so she panicked and decided to double down.

"I said no cops!" she yelled. She pulled off her jacket and took the detonator in her hand. One of the bank patrons started running for the door. "Nobody move. This is a robbery. Everybody do what you're told, or I'm going to blow up this bank and everyone in it."

Everyone was frozen in place and staring at her, and she remembered that they were waiting for her instructions. She strode to the middle of the room. "All right everyone down on the floor." They all started crouching down where they were standing. "No! All together. In front of the counter. Move!" They all stood up again and shuffled quickly to lie down in front of the counter. There were seven of them in total, not counting the manager in the vault and the teller whom she could hear sobbing as she hid beneath the manager's desk. She decided it was best if she just left her there.

The doors to the bank opened and two men walked in, one with a gun already drawn. She suddenly understood the hole she had dug for herself. She couldn't go to jail. After one night in lock-up, they would know she was a freak. Chris started to imagine the things they would do to her. Her heart, already racing from the adrenaline, skipped a beat. She couldn't get caught. No matter what, she wouldn't go through that torture.

In a panic, she yelled, "Get down on the floor. Do it now."

The nervous-looking one in front started to get down, but the other pulled him back to his feet. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's not do anything crazy here," said the tough-looking one as he put the gun on the floor and kicked it away. "Look I don't know why you're doing this but it's obviously not going how you planned. I think the best thing to do now is just to stop and give yourself up. The police are already here. You can hear them outside. They are never going to let you go, and if you set that thing off, we all die. Nobody wants that, so whatever the problem is, I'm sure we can work it out."

"Stop talking," Chris blurted out. "You don't know. You couldn't."

"What don't I know? I'm sorry, I don't know your name. What should I call you?

"My name?" she asked. "You want to know my name? I standing here about to kill you and all these people and you want to know my name?"

"Yeah. I'm Sam. This is Jacob. Say hi, Jacob."

With a nervous wave, the other man said, "Hey."

"Good boy. Now let me ask you Steve. Is this how you saw things going when you got up this morning?"

"My name's not Steve. It's..." She stopped, realizing she was about to give this cop her name. "Larry," she said, picking the name of her last boyfriend. "Don't call me Steve."

"Okay, Larry. What happened to you? What went wrong that you ended up here?"

"Why do you care?" answered Chris. She was losing it fast. She had to get out of here. "Nobody cared about me until I threatened to blow up a bank. Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think I don't know what you're trying to do? I just need the money. I can't pay my bills, and if I don't get some money, I'll be out in the street. Did you care when I lost my job? No, you just care because I've got this." She waved the detonator in her hand at the cop's face, daring him to make her use it.

That was when she realized the major drawback to robbing a bank with a bomb. It was an all or nothing proposition. You couldn't punish anyone who got out of line, and you could only bluff so many times. It also occurred to her that she might not be cut out for the whole bank robbing thing, but it was a little late for that now.

The crowd was starting to get agitated at all this talk of blowing up. The cop started walking toward her, dragging the other man with him as a shield. "Look if you want to kill yourself," he said, "that's fine. No one will stop you, but you don't have to take all these people with you. Why don't you go jump under a bus? Or dive off a bridge?"

"What?" Chris stammered, not quite believing what she was hearing.

The other man finally spoke up. He looked as terrified as she felt, but the cop still held him by the collar. "You lunatic. If you want to die, you can do it without me."

The cop was still coming forward. He was only a few steps away now. "Did you even leave a note? Will they know why you died? Or will you just be some nutcase who blew up a bank and nobody knows why?

"Stay back! I'm warning you. I'll do it!"

"Then do it!" The cop yelled and lunged forward.

She forgot everything when the blinding flash of pain erupted in her face. She instinctively brought up her hands to protect herself, but the cop was ready with handcuffs. She watched helplessly as he pulled the detonator away and tossed it to the other man. He said, "Here's a souvenir for you." Like it was a day at the circus and not the end of her life. If nothing else, she would hate this man for the rest of her life for his callousness in her defeat. However long that life was.

She couldn't see any more. Her eyes were filled with blood and tears and the pain was even worse than the change. She tried to curse him, but even that hurt too much. All she manage was to whimper, "I think you broke my nose."

"Shut up," he barked. "You had your chance to come quietly."

She heard him walk to the middle of the room and start addressing the crowd, but she had stopped caring about anything, even the pain. She felt strong hands taking off the vest and hoisting her to her feet. There were paramedics who cleaned her up and bandaged her face. More cops tossed her in the back of a car and then in an empty room. They asked her questions for hours but she said nothing. More hands led her into a jail cell. She lay alone for hours staring up at the ceiling feeling nothing.

Every fifteen minutes or so, a guard would walk past her cell to check on her, otherwise she didn't see anyone. The other prisoners would occasionally make some noise, but otherwise it was quiet on the block. She dimly remembered talk of transferring her to a hospital, but nothing could be done until morning. By then, it would be too late. There was only one choice left for her.

She waited until the guard passed by before getting up out of bed. Chris pulled the sheet of the bed and fashioned a makeshift noose. She draped the open loop around her neck, and climbed up the bars until she was a couple of feet off the ground. She tied the loose end to the bars and, without hesitation, jumped. For several minutes she dangled choking with her toes scraping the ground. She wasn't sad anymore. She was just relieved it was almost over. The far wall became blurry, and a minute later, everything went black.

Chris woke to the searing pain of the change. She hated when she slept through the alarm and got woken up like this. She lay back and waited for the burning to pass. As it subsided, she realized where she was. She sat bolt upright on the cold metal table, and the sheet that was draped over her fell away. She felt her neck, but there was no crushed windpipe. She could breathe fine. Even her broken nose had been healed.

It was fortunate that the morgue was empty at twenty-two after six in the morning, otherwise someone would have had a nasty surprise. She wrapped herself in the sheet and looked around for a reflective surface until she found a small mirror. Today she was a young Japanese woman, and a pretty one at that.

She wasn't sure if she should laugh or cry. On the one hand, she could walk out of here a free woman, but on the other, she had come back from what she thought was a certain death. How long was this torture going to go on? Until she died of old age? She had been both old and young in the past few months. Words like youth and age were just faces that she wore and discarded the next day. What did it mean to grow old when you are born anew every day?

Someone walked by in the corridor outside and she hid reflexively. She waited, but whoever it was didn't come in the room. The philosophical crisis would have to wait until later. Right now, she needed to get out of here. She started looking around for some clothes.

# Unflattering

## Philip

His three best friends had already finished eating by the time Philip arrived at the cafeteria. Lorne was telling the others a story, but it was the same one he had already told Philip earlier in chemistry class, so he wasn't missing anything. Katie and Paul seemed to be enjoying it though, and both chuckled as Lorne finished.

"...and that's why they'll never let him back into the store," said Lorne.

"Yeah," said Philip, putting his tray down on the table. "I can't believe he didn't get arrested for that."

"Well, look who decided to join us," Lorne said playfully.

"I got stuck in the Guidance Office, for like, forever," answered Philip.

"So what do you want to be when you grow up?" asked Katie.

"I'm eighteen next week," he answered, "so I guess it's too late for me. I'm destined to wander aimlessly as a hobo for all eternity."

"Always the drama queen," said Lorne. "I thought you were going to study history."

"No, that was just so I could I have more historical accuracy in our D&D campaigns," Philip joked back.

They all laughed at that.

"Not possible!" shrieked Katie.

"I still can't believe you're not going to join me and work at NASA," said Paul. "You must be the only Chinese kid in the world to suck at math."

"It's true. I'm a disgrace to my race," said Philip. "Seriously though, I just needed some help nailing down my summer internship."

Lorne stood up from the table. "Sorry to bail on you, but we have to cram for that biology test. C'mon guys. Let's hit the library."

Philip wasn't particularly hungry today, and he hated to eat alone, so he looked around the room at all the other students gathered there instead. They each had their own little cliques; some were large, but most were not. A few people sat alone like him.

He thought about what he had said earlier. While it was true he did love mythology and folklore, and planned to study them at university, that decision was more a default than a choice. All his life he had suffered from a kind of apathy. It wasn't that he didn't care so much as there were things in life which he didn't see as important, so he just ignored them. He wasn't afraid of hard work, and he even relished it once he started. But he had trouble getting going, so most of his dreams remained unfulfilled.

Paul was going to be an engineer, and Katie wanted to be a designer. Lorne was going to Hollywood right after high school to become an actor. If anyone had the drive to succeed it was him. Philip wished he could be more like Lorne. Always so confident and outgoing, Lorne was the life of the party everywhere he went.

Across the room, some of the football jocks were reliving their glory days and started tossing the ball around. It was hard to think with all the noise, so Philip decided to leave. He stood up and picked up his tray, but before he could drop his uneaten food in the garbage, he heard a sudden shout from behind him, "Heads up!"

He quickly spun around to see an errant pass coming straight at him. Holding the tray in his left hand, he caught the ball easily with his right. The feat was met with surprised stares and scattered applause. Philip spun the ball in his hand a couple of times. He had held a football many times in his life, but it had never felt this natural, this right. He tossed a perfect spiral to one of the guys at the far end of the room.

Jenny Linns walked past him to empty her tray and smiled at him. "I think you missed your calling. You should have tried out for the team."

"I guess maybe I did," he answered smiling back. He dumped his tray and walked out, feeling very good about himself.

As he walked toward his next class, he wondered what had just happened. In the span of a minute he had made an impossible catch to save himself from embarrassment, and the gorgeous Jenny had spoken to him for the first time ever, despite the fact they had been in the same school since the seventh grade. But it went deeper than that. He felt different, like he actually was someone else. Whatever was happening, he liked it.

The excitement wore off as the day progressed, however. Sitting in classes all day and listening to one boring lecture after another will suck the joy out of anyone. As he walked home after school he had a few minutes to wonder. It seemed to him to be more than a lucky catch. He had suddenly felt more confident, true, but he had also felt stronger and more coordinated, as if he had played for years. Maybe it was just one of those freak things that just doesn't have a good explanation. You could drive yourself crazy trying to figure it out.

He hadn't gone far when Philip saw one of the local pushers hanging out on the corner. His name was Kevin something. He had been a year behind Philip in school before dropping out last fall. Philip didn't want a confrontation, so he decided to cross to the other side to avoid him. When the punk saw Philip cross the street, however, Kevin flicked half a cigarette away, and came after him.

"Yo, wanna buy some crack?" asked Kevin.

"No, thanks," answered Philip. "Not interested."

"What's the matter, you too good for me?"

"No. I'm just not into drugs, okay?"

Philip kept walking, but Kevin grabbed his arm and stopped him. "I see you crossing the street to avoid me," said Kevin, getting up in Philip's face. "so I have to figure maybe you don't like me."

Suddenly Philip was filled with anger. Philip looked Kevin square in the face and said, "You're right. I don't like you. You pollute the streets with your filth. I stay away from you just to avoid the smell."

"What did you just say to me?" Kevin was wide-eyed with rage.

Philip looked down to see the kid was holding a knife on him. He held up his hands to show he was unarmed. Philip didn't know what had made him say that. It was like someone else was speaking through him. Philip managed to say, "Look, I don't want any trouble."

"You should have thought of that before you opened your mouth," the punk answered, waving the knife.

Philip quickly looked around, trying to find some way out of this mess. At the end of the block, he saw a cop walking toward him. If only he could stall for a minute or two...

"Give me your money," Kevin went on, "and maybe I'll forget this ever happened."

"Sure," said Philip, "just don't do anything stupid."

That just made Kevin mad. "Now, you're calling me stupid!" He jabbed the knife at Philip's stomach.

Philip didn't have time to think. When the knife started coming toward him he just reacted. The next thing he knew, Kevin was on his knees with his arm pinned behind his back. He struggled to get up but Philip held him there in a grip that made him wince every time he moved. Even though this kid had thirty pounds of muscle on him, he wasn't going anywhere.

The cop trotted up a few seconds later, and pulled out his gun. "Both of you put your hands where I can see them!"

"He's got a knife," said Philip. He pivoted to one side so the cop could see the knife in the kid's hand. With a squeeze on the nerves in Kevin's wrist, Philip forced him to drop the blade. He pushed Kevin forward so he was off balance and staggered a couple of feet away. Philip stood unmoving with his hands in the air. "He tried to rob me. I was just defending myself."

With the cop's attention focused on Philip, Kevin sprinted down the sidewalk. "Stay there. Don't move," shouted the cop before chasing after Kevin. Philip considered just taking off, but he knew that would only make him look guilty as well, so he waited until a cruiser showed up a few minutes later.

Philip walked out of the police station several hours later with his worried and somewhat baffled father. It was nearly dark when they got to the house, but his mother had kept dinner warm for them. He and his father, neither knowing what to say, sat in silence at the dinner table.

It wasn't until his fifteen-year-old sister Trish came downstairs that the topic on everyone's mind was mentioned. "Oh my god. What did you do? I heard you got arrested."

"Not arrested. I just had to fill out a report at the police station. I got attacked."

"But your brother fought him off," said his father, "and actually caught the boy."

"You?" she asked, surprised. "You fought him off?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" countered Philip.

"Please. I could beat you up." Trish laughed and said, "Who were you attacked by? A Girl Scout?"

Before Philip could argue, his father interrupted. "Trish, stop bothering your brother. He's been through a lot today."

"Fine." She stood there and stared in disbelief for a moment. After a minute, she started to laugh.

"Trish, don't make me send you to your room like a little kid," said their father.

"Sorry, it's just...well Phil was doing a perfect imitation of you. He put the food in his mouth at the same time, he chewed the same, and he even stirred his plate with his fork just like you did. It was like looking at a mirror reflection. You had to see it from here. It was hilarious."

Her phone rang and she walked away to talk with her friend. Philip thought for a moment. A reflection Trish had said. That somehow made sense. It described the feeling he'd been having all day, like he wasn't himself. He had an idea, but it would have to wait until later when he was alone.

After dinner, he went to his room, turned on his computer, and found a video clip from one of his favorite movies. They were practicing martial arts moves right before a big fight. Philip tried to move the same way and found it easy. Instead of his usual awkward self, his movements were fluid and precise, as if he had practiced for years. He found a music video and watched it all the way through once. When he replayed the video he found he could recreate every step. The boy with two left feet was dancing like a pro. He couldn't believe it. He had to try again.

This time it was a parkour viral video. He had to know if this was some superficial effect or whether this was real. Once he was done watching, Philip opened his bedroom window and looked around to see if anyone was watching. He took a deep breath to steel his courage and jumped.

Without thinking, he reached out for the tree limb that grew across from his window. The wood bent and swayed, but it held his weight as he swung forward to the roof of the garage. He ran forward hopping to the neighbor's garage and then down to the back lane, where he landed in a perfect roll to break his fall. Philip continued on down the lane until he came to the playground at the end of the street. He went over the climbing bars like a monkey and ran up the slide. He did a handstand on the top rail, and vaulted off the top of the play structure to a textbook landing.

A little winded from all the exertion, he sat down on the swings and looked up at the early evening stars already starting to poke through the deepening veil of night. He felt blessed. A part of him didn't want to question how or why this was happening to him. He just wanted to enjoy it for however long it lasted. It felt like he could be and do anything he wanted. Who would want to question that?

It wouldn't be until the next day that he would have an answer. As Philip walked home from school, Lorne tagged along, but he was uncharacteristically quiet. After several long minutes of silence, he asked, "Dude, what is up with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Yesterday you were a geek, and today you're suddenly a superhero, fighting crime and breaking hearts. Did you get a dose of radiation or something? Were you abducted by aliens and given an implant?" Lorne lifted up Philip's shirt to check for scars, but Philip pushed him away.

Philip laughed. "No, I think I would have remembered something like that."

"What is it then?" asked Lorne.

"It all started yesterday. Honestly, I don't know how but...here let me show you." by chance, Lorne and he were at the playground which was empty at the moment. Philip dropped his backpack on the ground and ran toward slide, just as he had done last night. He made the leap for the rail but fell short and came down hard on the timber with an audible thud.

Lorne was beside himself with laughter. "Your superpower is to disable your enemies by making them laugh so hard they can't fight?"

"Shut up," moaned Philip. "I think I have a concussion."

"You're fine. People fall on their heads all the time. Could you do that again, though. I want to get it on video."

"I don't understand," said Philip. "Maybe it wears off after a while." Still rubbing the top of his head, he came down the slide in the conventional way, stopping himself so he could sit at the bottom.

"Maybe what wears off?" asked Lorne.

"Let me think," said Philip. He sat for a moment while the pained expression wore off his face. "Do you have your calculus text with you?"

"Yeah, I've been studying for my final. What do you want with that?"

"Just get it," said Philip, "and a pencil and paper."

Lorne pulled the book out of his knapsack along with a notebook and pencil case. He asked, "Okay, now what?"

"Open up the book and solve a problem. Any problem. Oh, and show your work."

Lorne sat down on the park bench nearby. He opened the book to where he had left off earlier, and selected a problem. Copying it down in the notebook, he solved it in less than two minutes. "All right, there you go. Now what?"

"Now pick another problem and copy it into the notebook but don't solve it."

Lorne gave him a puzzled look, but then he did as Philip had asked him. He found a similar problem and copied it at the top of a fresh page, then he handed the pencil and paper to Philip.

He took them and studied the page for a moment, then Philip picked up the pencil and began to scrawl furiously. After a minute he handed the book back and said, "How's that?"

Lorne studied the page with disbelief. "I think that's right. How did you do that? You suck at math. You shouldn't be able to do that."

"I don't know how," said Philip, "but it seems to work with anything. If a human being can do it, then I can copy it. It's not just math problems either."

"Is that how you beat that hood?" asked Lorne.

"Yeah," answered Philip. "I guess when I saw the cop down the street, I picked up all his training. When that guy attacked me with the knife, I instinctively knew what to do. It was second nature, like muscle memory."

"That is so frakking cool," said Lorne. "Can you show me something else?"

"That's what I was trying to do earlier when I fell on my head. Apparently, anything I learn isn't permanent. It disappears after a few hours, maybe when I sleep. I'm not sure yet. I'm still figuring this out."

Behind him, Philip heard someone calling his name. Katie was running toward him, and she looked desperate and out of breath. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

"What is it? asked Philip.

"That guy you got arrested yesterday. His buddies are out looking for you to deliver some payback. They came by the school and started hassling Paul and some of the other kids. They were trying to find out where you were."

"Is Paul okay?"

"He's fine. They didn't hurt anyone. The gang just pushed them around and left. Paul wouldn't say anything, but I'm guessing one of the others might have. You need to get off the streets now."

"C'mon," said Lorne. "Let's get you home. We've got a lot of work to do if we're going to get you ready."

"Ready for what?" asked a worried Katie.

"To meet his destiny."

They left a bewildered Katie in the park and headed to Philip's house. He convinced his mother that Lorne would be staying over for the night, under the pretense of studying for exams, but really, they had other plans.

Lorne had Philip run through a number of exercises, first in math, and then in university level physics and chemistry. He aced them all in no time. Then Lorne had the brilliant idea to have Philip learn to tie a complicated knot. He would then have him try to tie it every fifteen minutes to see how long the skill lasted. While they waited, Philip learned gymnastics tumbling, how to knit a sweater, and several magic tricks. It was three and a quarter hours later when Philip realized he could no longer remember how to tie the knot.

"So it looks like the upper limit is about three hours, to be conservative," said Lorne. "If you go hang gliding, make sure you're back on the ground in two-and-a half hours, just to be safe."

"That explains how it works, but we're no closer to figuring out why," said Philip.

"Au contraire, mon capitan," said Lorne. "While you were finishing your cardigan, I was digging into this city's history."

"What does history have to do with anything?"

"Ah, my poor naïve friend. You of all people should know, in all things, history is the key. If more people realized that, the world would be a better place, all around. But in this case especially, because this city shouldn't exist."

"What do you mean it shouldn't exist?" challenged Philip. "All you have to do is look out the window and you can see it does."

Lorne frowned. "Well, epistemological arguments aside, what I meant to say is that it there's no reason for a city to be here. And before you say it, I'll tell you that's not a value judgment. As far as cities go this one is just swell. But it shouldn't be here."

"Maybe you better explain that," said Philip.

"I was hoping you could explain it to me. Usually a town grows from some core industry. It may be a mine, abundant farmland, maybe a forest, or even a religious shrine. They also act as a transportation hub for trade. People are drawn to work in the industry, and then more people arrive to work in service industries. It works as a positive feedback loop, slowly growing the population over time. Eventually, smaller towns overlap and merge into cities."

"Thanks for the lesson, but what does..."

"Our city didn't follow that pattern at all," Lorne interrupted. "It was one small town in the middle of nowhere until about thirty or forty years ago. Then suddenly, hundreds of thousands of people just started moving here. That doesn't happen without a reason, like say, a gold rush. I don't remember anyone striking gold, do you?"

"Weird."

"That's not even the weird part yet," said Lorne. "If you know where to look, you'll find all kinds of reports of people doing seemingly impossible things."

"Like what," asked Philip.

"Here," Lorne turned the monitor so Philip could see it better. "This is a report of a man who can run as fast as a car. And another of a woman who apparently ripped the door off a store. By accident. Then there's the ghost at the Kingsbury hotel, as well.

"Is Bigfoot in there?"

"Laugh all you want,"said Lorne, "but there are dozens of cases like this, mostly in this city. We are at the hub of a great mystery. I think there may be others out there with abilities. Maybe one of them knows what's going on."

"I'm not sure knowing that there are a bunch of people running around with superpowers is the comforting image you thought it would be."

"Whatever," said Lorne. "I think the big question you should be focusing on now is what to do with this ability of yours."

"I don't know. My head's still spinning. Let me sleep on it. We still have school tomorrow."

Questions spun in Philip's head that night and all through the next day. He couldn't concentrate on his schoolwork at all, so he just sat staring out the window for most of the day. He met Lorne, who was waiting for him by the front doors.

"So, have you given it any thought?" asked Lorne.

"I've done nothing but think, but I'm no closer to an answer." Philip kicked at the ground idly. "You're the brains in this operation. What do you think I should do?"

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but..."

"C'mon spit it out!"

Suddenly, the side of Lorne's head exploded outwards, spraying blood all over Philip. He watched helplessly as he started to slump over. "Lorne!" he shouted. "Lorne!"

He tried to hold him up, but he knew it was already too late. Lorne was dead. The weight of his body pulled Philip down to the ground.

Students were running and screaming everywhere at the sound of the gunshot. Philip looked up to see an arm sticking out of a passing car window, a pistol in its hand. Philip realized the bullet had been meant for him, and he laid down behind the body of his friend. He heard another shot fired and then a third before the car sped off and disappeared.

Philip knelt over Lorne's body. There was no question that he wasn't breathing, and that he wouldn't ever again. Everything that Lorne was – his intellect, his charm, his talent – it was all spilling out of a hole in the side of his best friend's head. All because of some asshole's ego. He knew he should feel sad at the loss, but all Philip could feel was a boiling rage and a sudden determination. As he looked down at his friend for what might be the last time, he had an answer to his question. He knew what he had to do.

He stayed with the body until the police came. All around him people were panicking, but Philip remained still and focused. He remembered all the times that the two of them had spent together. In his mind, he saw not the bloody corpse that was the reality, but the friend who helped him when no one else would. He was the one person Philip could trust without question, and now all that he was and ever would be had been taken away for the sake of some arrogant fool's pride. It had to end.

There were the inevitable questions and the gathering of evidence. It was already getting dark by the time Philip got home. He realized it had been hours and he still had drops of Lorne's dried blood spattered on his arms and face. After he'd had a shower and changed clothes, the family sat down for dinner, but no one was hungry or in a talkative mood, so they mostly watched one another push food around on their plates. His parents made their best efforts to console him, but the words felt hollow. He excused himself and went to his room, stopping only to gather some supplies from his mother's sewing basket.

From his closet, he pulled out all his black clothes, and a pair of gloves from his winter wardrobe, already stored away. He went to his computer and found a video about sewing. Taking scissors to an old t-shirt, he cut out the pattern to make a hood to cover his face. With his new-found sewing acumen, he had hand stitched something serviceable in just a few minutes. He slipped into a pair of black jeans and a lightweight hoodie.

Philip admired himself in the full length mirror which hung on the back of his door. With the mask and gloves on, he looked like a veritable ninja, but he couldn't help but think that something was missing. He dug through his closet some more until he found an old pair of goggles. While the look was a little steampunk, they would hide his ethnicity as well as help protect his eyes.

He took off the hood, goggles, and gloves and set them aside on the bed. He turned out the light in the hope that his family would think he had gone to bed. Putting on his headphones, he started searching the Internet for videos. He skipped the Hollywood movies. Real fighters were what he was looking for. He started with a Navy Seal recruitment ad and went from there. After an hour, he had assembled a playlist of all the biggest badasses he could find. He checked the time and pressed play.

He had less than three hours to do what needed to be done. He grabbed the rest of his costume, took a last deep breath, and jumped out the window. This time he dropped to the ground in front of the door to the garage. Taking out his key, he opened the door and slipped inside. He fished out a handful of heavy, plastic zip ties from his dad's toolbox, and he grabbed his baseball bat from out of the corner. He found his old ten speed and wheeled it out as quietly as he could to the back lane. Draping the bat across the handlebars he set off.

His first destination was a convenience store where he knew the gang had set up shop. There was one punk there, leaning up against the wall beside a broken payphone. Philip stopped the bike, got off, and hid it behind a row of hedges. Donning the mask and gloves, he tapped the bat in his hands a couple of times to get a feel for its weight. He pulled down the goggles over his eyes, and set out across the street.

As the dealer saw him coming, he started to laugh. "What the fuck are you supposed to be?" he asked.

Philip tried to be as intimidating and commanding as he could. It was a good effort, but his tenor voice came off screechy as he shouted, "Give me all your money and your drugs!"

"Shut the fuck up." The dealer couldn't take this scrawny kid in the ninja costume seriously. He ignored him and went back to leaning against the wall. As Philip came running toward him, he suddenly realized this clown in the costume was serious. He reached behind his back to pull a gun from his belt, but he was too slow. Before he could swing the pistol all the way around, Philip knocked it from his hand with a swing of the bat, breaking the punk's thumb in the process.

The gun slid away across the pavement. Desperate and in pain, the pusher made a run for his weapon, but Philip swung the bat into the back of his knees, cutting the other guy's feet out from under him. He came down hard on the asphalt.

Momentarily stunned by the fall, the dealer scrambled to get to his feet. Philip walked over and picked up the gun. He dangled it in front of the dealer, taunting him with it, before he tossed it on to the roof of the store.

"You fucker," the dealer yelled. "I'm gonna kill you." Furious, the punk rushed at him again, but Philip nailed him in the gut. As his attacker doubled over, he struck him another blow to the back, forcing him back down to the ground. This time, Philip stuck his knee into the guy's back to hold him down. He made a quick search of the dealer's pockets. He found a wad of money, and some baggies full of drugs. He stood up again, walked a few steps away, and waited for the dealer to get back up. When Philip was sure the guy was watching, he dumped the drugs on the ground and ground them under his heel.

The punk made one last charge at Philip, but he was waiting for him. This time he didn't even need the bat. He just punched the guy in the nose, hard enough that the blood started to flow. The dealer staggered back, unsure of what to do. When Philip lifted the bat on to his shoulder and readied another swing, the punk thought better of it, turned, and ran away.

Philip faded back into the shadows and watched him leave. He chased the guy for a few blocks, always keeping out of sight. The dealer staggered down a few alleys before finding a heavy steel door, dilapidated with age and covered with graffiti. The building it led to appeared to be an old hotel, now closed and abandoned. The new tenants weren't doing much in the way of upkeep.

When Philip tried the door, it was unlocked. Inside was a small loading dock and storeroom with a set of swinging doors which led out into a dimly lit corridor. He heard music and muted conversation from down the hall. Quietly, he slipped through the doors and headed toward the noise.

Philip watched them in the reflection from a discarded napkin holder that was lying on the floor. There were five of them, gathered in what used to be the bar. It looked like four guys and someone's girlfriend. They had been sitting around a large television playing a video game which was now paused on the screen. The dealer he'd chased here was trying to explain to his gang what had happened.

"You let some jack-off roll you for your stash, and then you come crying to me like some little pussy?" The leader was older, about twenty-five, and heavily muscled. He looked like an animal ready to pounce.

Like a puppy with his tail between his legs, the dealer begged for mercy. "He was like...a ninja or something. I couldn't touch him. He moved too fast."

Philip retreated to the storeroom. He pulled the zip ties from his pocket and fashioned five pairs of makeshift handcuffs. When he was done, he took an empty beer bottle and rolled it down the hallway. He fell back into the shadows and waited.

When the first thug showed up to investigate the noise, Philip grabbed his arm and pulled. Surprised, the punk was off balance and fell sideways into a pile of empty bottles. The cases split and erupted their contents all over the floor, covering it with glass. He tried to get up, but in the dark, he stepped on a bottle and fell down again cutting his hands. Philip sent him all the way down with a kick in the back. Pulling the guy's hands around a guard rail, he slipped on the cuffs and pulled them tight.

There was no time to waste. Philip grabbed the bat and ran back to the doorway just in time to see two more coming straight toward him side-by-side. He burst through the doors and ran at them with the bat held aloft at neck level. They both went down on their backs as Philip continued onward.

As he rounded the corner, he saw the gun in the upraised arm of the leader. He darted back into hallway the just in time to see three bullets hit the wall behind where he had been standing. From behind him one of the two guys he'd clotheslined was coming back for more. He charged recklessly at Philip, trying to tackle him and hold him down. At just the right instant, Philip stepped out of his way and the punk went charging past and into the doorway. Two more shots rang out and the guy fell to the floor dead.

The leader screamed in rage, but Philip had had enough. He stepped around the corner and threw the bat at the gunman's face. While the guy was dodging that, Philip leaped over the tables toward him. He jumped down to the floor and grabbed a chair, smashing it over the leader's shoulder and knocking him into the bar. While he was stunned, Philip tied his hands to the brass footrest on the bar.

The girl was strung out and half-starved. Philip could have beaten her without any abilities, but she tried to defend herself by smashing a bottle on one of the tables. Despite hitting it twice, it wouldn't break. Philip reached down and picked up the gun. Without hesitation, he took aim and shot the bottle out of her hands, sending glass flying. When she looked up again Philip was pointing the gun at her. "Where's the money?" he asked. Terrified she just stood there. He held the gun up to take aim at her head. "Last chance."

"Don't tell him anything," the leader ordered, but Philip kept the gun trained on her until her will broke.

"Behind the bar," she blurted out. "In the beer fridge behind the bar. That's where he keeps everything."

"Get it," ordered Philip.

Nervously, she ran behind the bar, pulled out a big roll of cash and put it on top of the bar. She pulled out a bag of crack rocks, a couple of bags of weed, and a few other things Philip could only make a guess at. "That's everything."

"Get out," said Philip. "I won't tell you twice."

She waited a moment, as if not quite believing he was letting her go, and ran out through the lobby to the street.

"When I get free, you are so fucking dead," said the gang leader.

Philip bent down to talk to the groggy but still conscious man, who was trying to bite through the plastic ties. "I'm guessing a lot of this money belongs to someone else. Someone who doesn't like it when you don't pay your bills." He stuck the money in his pocket. "I'm not going to kill you, even though I should. I want you to know what it's like to live in fear."

He could hear sirens in the background coming to investigate the gunfire. He stood up and walked back out the way he had come. The last gang member still lay on the floor, gasping for breath through the pink froth of blood that filled his mouth. It was the dealer he had chased here. With a broken windpipe, he would not be bothering anyone for a long time. Philip went back to the loading dock, stepping over the first punk who was still flopping around on the floor of the storeroom, and slipped out the back into the alley. A few blocks away, he ditched the bat and his bloody hoodie into a dumpster and headed off toward home.

When the cops arrived they would find three gang members, a dead body, and a pile of drugs. Philip trusted they would make the right call and lock up those assholes forever. The money he took would more than pay for Lorne's funeral. He would leave the bundle in their mailbox on his way home and make an anonymous call to let them know where to find it. His parents shouldn't have to pay to bury their son.

Thinking of Lorne again made him remember what his friend had said earlier. The question of where these abilities had come from was still a mystery. The truth was if this hadn't happened to him, he never would have stood up to that punk in the first place, and they wouldn't have had to retaliate. Whoever or whatever had done this to him had a lot to answer for.

Lorne had said there were others like him. Philip needed to find them.

# Unreal

## Lisa

"Ah, if it isn't my best customer. I have a good selection for you today."

Lisa looked over the tray full of jewelry. It was full of cheap knock-off rings, bracelets and sundries. They were the kind of things you'd expect from a shady pawn shop like the one she was in. The jetsam of a bad economy, each one of these pieces was once someone's birthday present, anniversary gift, or wedding vow. This was the least favorite part of her day, having to deal with the low-life bottom feeders who were inevitably drawn to this profession. Still, it was best to keep good relations with her suppliers, so she put on her best smile instead of gritting her teeth.

"That looks like a good haul, Louie," she said. "I'll take the lot."

"I'm so glad we met. I'd rather sell to you than have to melt this all down for scrap." Louie had his business smile on as well. He had better when she was paying ten percent more than anyone else would. She handed over a few crisp bills in exchange for the pile of worthless junk and poured the tray into her handbag

"I don't know what you do with all that," said Louie, "but I'm glad to be rid of it. Same time next month?"

"Yes, I'll see you then." Lisa left as quickly as she could. Louie was the worst of the lot, except for that one guy downtown who wouldn't stop hitting on her. If she didn't need the jewelry, she would never talk to these people ever again.

As she left the shop, she debated whether she should get lunch or make her last stop of the day. She finally decided on the latter. If she got all of her business out of the way, she would have the afternoon for herself. Besides, it was only a few blocks from here, and it was a perfect day for a walk through the city.

She checked herself out in the store window. Dressed in the finest designer outfit she could find, she looked the part of a high-roller. It was hard for her, being in her mid-twenties and black, to be taken as a serious customer in these exclusive shops. Racism was still alive and well in the twenty-first century, especially among the wealthy. It had taken months to develop a rapport with the clerks and owners so that they brought out their best pieces instead of hiding them. In the end, money was the great equalizer. Now, no one would question her motives as she went into the most expensive jeweler in town.

It was the blonde girl, Wendy, behind the desk today. She was one of the few people Lisa met in her business dealings that seemed genuinely happy to be dealing with customers. Sales could make you so jaded, so quickly.

"Hi, it's so good to see you again," Wendy chirped. "Were you looking for something in particular today?"

"Actually, yes," answered Lisa. "I'm looking for a birthday present for a friend. What do you have that's unique? Maybe something designed just for this store."

"Of course, right this way."

Lisa looked over the selection that she brought, picking each one up and examining it in turn. One piece struck her though, a cameo on a silver chain. It looked like something her mother would love, so she couldn't resist buying it. When she had finished looking at the rest, she told Wendy, "I'll take that one. It's just what I was looking for."

"Excellent. Just let me wrap that up for you."

"Do you mind if I pay in cash? I've maxed out my credit cards again this month." She held out several hundred-dollar bills.

"No, of course not. Just let me get your change." Wendy took the money and disappeared into the back room, probably checking to see if the bills were counterfeit. She could check all she wanted. There was nothing wrong with them. Wendy returned a minute later with change in hand. "Don't you worry about getting robbed? It can't be safe to walk around with that kind of cash in your bag."

Lisa smiled at the girl. "It's only money. There's more where that came from."

"I wish I had your problems," said Wendy.

It was turning out to be a glorious spring day, so she decided to enjoy it. She made her way to a little bistro and took a seat on the patio. As she waited for her order, she opened her purse to get a look at her handiwork.

She picked through the remains of what had been the cheap jewelry, now pitted and chewed up like they had been splashed with acid, to pull out the piece she had made. It was a perfect copy of one of the necklaces she had been handling in the store. She slipped it into a small velvet bag and returned it to her purse. Selling that one necklace would pay her bills for a month, and she had enough scrap left over for at least three more just like it.

While they thought she was shopping she had really been just holding the jewelry long enough to get a reading. Then in her other hand, which was strategically placed on her purse near the cheap stuff, an exact replica was being made. While she couldn't make something from nothing, she could easily turn a pile of cheap gold baubles into some high-class bling.

Not that it mattered. Her gift was a license to print money. The whole jewelry scam was just cover in case someone asked where all the wealth came from. Technically it wasn't stealing, since nothing was ever taken from the store. At worst it was trademark infringement, but since she only sold small amounts over the Internet, she had never shown up on anyone's radar.

That reminded her she needed to pay for lunch. She took a paper napkin from the table and balled it up in her hand. From her purse, she pulled out a small bottle and dabbed the napkin into the dark fluid inside. Returning the bottle, she pulled out two crisp, new twenty-dollar bills, folded them, and placed them in her other hand. When she opened both hands she had forty dollars in each, and nobody would be able to tell which were the originals and which were the fakes.

When she had finished eating, she slipped two of the bills under her coffee cup and got up to leave. She was always a big tipper. It helped people from asking too many questions, like where the money came from.

Now that Lisa had the afternoon free, she couldn't decide what to do. She thought of going shopping, but she already had more clothes than she could ever wear, and the apartment that she shared with her mother was already beautifully decorated. Besides the thrill of shopping is gone when price is no object, or you can just make a copy of anything you can't buy.

She needed a distraction more than anything. Something to take her mind off the one thing she couldn't buy: a cure for her mother's cancer. When she had been diagnosed two years ago, all Lisa had wanted was for her mom to be healthy again. And while her gift let her mother live in comfort with the best medical care available, she could not halt the progression of her disease.

All this thinking about her mother made her wonder if she should just go home; Lisa didn't want to leave her alone for too long. Walking out to the curb to hail a taxi, she didn't see the black van until it was too late. It screeched to a halt right in front of her. Two men with masks grabbed her and pulled her inside. She tried to scream, but one of the men covered her mouth with a thick, meaty hand. She tried to kick them and scratch them with her nails, but it was no use. The two men were more than a match for her.

One of her kidnappers pulled out a small bottle. He pointed it at her, and a fine mist covered her face. The sickly, sweet smell of it made her feel nauseated, and then dizzy and confused. Her last thought before she passed out was of her mother. She worried who would take care of her when she was gone.

When she woke up, she was surprised to still be alive. Her mouth was gagged with what felt like an oily rag and duct tape. The smell of ammonia made her cough and her eyes water, even under the sack they had put on her head. She was sitting on a folding chair with her hands cuffed behind her back and chained to a pipe set in the floor. She would not be going anywhere soon.

The two men were a few steps away, one on either side, but they weren't making any moves toward her. The two brutes seemed to be waiting for someone else, and she was sure it was someone she didn't want to meet. It wasn't long before she heard a door open behind her and two sets of footsteps across the concrete floor. In her panic, she struggled futilely against the chains. She could hardly get enough air through her nostrils and began to feel like she might pass out again.

"Now, now, gentlemen," he said. "That's no way to treat a lady. Let's have that gag off and we'll take a good look at you."

From behind, a hand ripped the bag from her head and then another took the tape off her face. She was blinded by the sudden brightness and the tears in her eyes, but she could just make out the tall man in an expensive suit standing in front of her, eyeing her critically. "I know you," she said. "You're that used car salesman from TV."

"Guilty as charged. Of course, that's just my day job. I have a number of, shall we say, side projects that take up most of my time these days. But none are more interesting than you."

She could focus more clearly now. It was indeed the same Smilin' Bob from the TV ads, although his age showed more clearly in person. He had wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that must have taken a lot of makeup to hide. "What makes you think I won't tell the cops what you've done to me?"

A wicked grin crossed his face. "Oh, Miss Parker," he said, "when you leave here, you'll either be working for me, or you'll be dead."

He waved the two men still in masks away, and they turned and left without a word. The third remained behind her where she couldn't see him without turning all the way around. Lisa looked at her surroundings. It was as she had guessed, a warehouse. There was a small card table and a few more chairs in front of her. Otherwise the cavernous room was empty. Smilin' Bob sat in one of the other chairs.

"You see, I know all about your little tricks. I've been watching you for some time now. I own half the pawn shops in this city. So when I got word of someone buying up all my inventory at a premium, I got interested real fast."

"I'm not anybody important," she whimpered. "I'm not worth any money. Please just let me go. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

"Just stop right there with the waterfalls. I know what you are because I'm one too." He held out his hand toward her, open with the palm facing up. For a second, she didn't know what he was doing, and then there was a sudden flash in his hand. Flames licked up his fingers as the intensity of the fire grew. The longer he held it, the more intense the fire grew. Soon it was blazing and rushing out like a welding torch. He clenched his fist and the flames vanished, except for one or two tongues which persisted until he shook them out. "Now, enough about me. Lets talk about you for a minute."

Lisa was stunned. On top of everything else, she was now faced with a man who had his own gift, and a dangerous one at that. "How...how did you do that?" she stammered.

The grin faded away into a scowl. "No, we aren't going to play that game," he said. "I didn't get where I am by being subtle, Miss Parker. I've been following you for some time now, and I have all the proof I need. Should I show you the pictures of you wearing clothes that you returned the previous day? Or that you sell high-end jewelry at a discount, even though you don't have any connection to a smithy or gem wholesaler? How about the fact that I've had all the bills that you paid with at my establishments examined, and they were guaranteed by experts to be genuine, despite the fact that I have several with the same serial numbers on them? Oh, it took some time. You were very careful, but I was very thorough."

Lisa's heart slowed a little from its frantic pace. If this was about money, he could have all he wanted. She didn't care if it meant she could get out of here and back home. "So, I assume you're not going to turn me over to the cops."

"It's a sad fact but people like us don't get locked in jail. They get taken to a little place out in the country where they can be experimented on by the government. At least until they've learned all they can. And then they take a look at your insides. No one ever comes out of there again."

Lisa winced at the thought of being cut open like a frog in a high school biology class. "The only question then is how much? I'm willing to negotiate."

"Don't be so presumptuous. I only negotiate with my peers. I own you, my dear. Let us be perfectly clear about that from the start." He stood up and walked toward her, stopping a few steps away. "You are the golden goose, and I am the giant. If you're a good girl and behave, you'll be rewarded. You do what I say, when I say it, or you get a visit from Mr. Pain."

He nodded at the man standing behind her. Lisa felt his hands cup the sides of her head and then there was a blinding flash of pain worse than anything she had ever felt before. All of her problems were forgotten as her nerves told her she was being crushed, burned, and electrocuted all at once. She let out a scream, involuntary and primal.

As quickly as it had started it was over. She slumped forward in the chair until the chain holding her down went taut. All she could think about was struggling to get her next breath. It seemed an eternity before she could lift her head again and speak. "What do you need me to do?"

The tall man smiled again, and pulled a phone from his pocket. "Bring it in," was all he said before hanging up.

The door behind her opened again and a masked man walked in and dropped a full duffel bag at her feet along with another empty one. He turned and left without a word. When they were alone again, Smilin' Bob bent down and unzipped the full bag. "That's one million dollars in cold, hard cash. I'd like you to make it two."

"All right. I can do it. Just get me out of these chains."

"Do it yourself," he ordered.

Lisa looked up at him. He was still smiling but there was no humor there in his face. She grabbed the chain in one hand and put her other hand over the cuff on her wrist. In a few seconds the handcuffs dissolved to the point where she could snap them off. She let the tangled mass of metal fall to the floor.

"Excellent," said Bob. "And now the money."

"It doesn't work like that," said Lisa. "I need material to work with. I can't just make something from nothing."

Smilin' Bob seemed less than impressed. "All right. What do you need?"

"Paper or wood. And ink."

He looked around for a moment, and then gestured to Mr. Pain behind her. As he walked away, she got her first look at her tormentor. He was a stocky Filipino man in a suit. With a shaved head and wearing sunglasses, he looked every bit the part of the evil henchman. He dragged a wooden pallet over to where she was sitting and dropped it on the floor by the bags, before returning to his place behind her.

"That should work," she said. "But I'll still need some ink."

"What do you usually use? You don't carry around a bottle of ink with you everywhere, do you?"

"Actually, I do. I keep a small vial and bits of all kinds of other things in my purse. You never know exactly what you'll need. I have a bigger bottle at home, for...well, for just this sort of situation."

"What happens if you don't have everything?" asked Bob. "Can you still make it work?"

Lisa paused. She didn't want to give away all of her secrets, but she wasn't in a position to argue. Mr Pain seemed to enjoy his job. "Yes," she answered, finally. "but it gets harder, and it takes longer."

Smilin' Bob pointed at the bag. "How long will this take?"

She looked down and considered. "About ten minutes if I had ink. I don't know how long without."

Bob sat down again. He took a moment to consider what she had said. "This should be interesting," he said. "Do it."

Lisa slid forward on the chair before rising up on unsteady legs. She knelt down beside the bags and reached inside to pull out the first bundle of money. Reaching over to the pallet with her other hand, she took a deep breath and started to concentrate.

Smilin' Bob watched in fascination as the wood began to dissolve just below where Lisa held her empty hand. In fact, the hand was no longer empty. Sheets of paper starting to grow like frost crystals on a cold window. In only a few seconds, the first bundle of money was almost complete, and Bob was ten thousand dollars richer.

After the third bundle, Lisa noticed that the paint was being stripped off of the chair she was sitting on. As it eroded, it fell like a fine powder to the floor. While most of it remained where it fell, some of the dust must have been moving across the floor because a thin streamer was steadily rising into Lisa's hand.

"You had better move the money back," she said after the fifth one, "or I'll just be eating up the old bills to make the new ones. Give me one stack at a time." Bob nodded at Mr. Pain who slid the two bags away from her, and then tossed a bundle in so Lisa could continue.

Starved for materials to work with, her power was spreading out in an expanding hemisphere and was taking supplies from wherever it could find them. As she worked, she continued to strip the paint from the furniture and the surrounding room. Just to be safe, the two men stayed outside the area, stepping backwards as needed. The effect scoured the floor clean, ran halfway up a concrete support pillar, and consumed the coating on all but the last half of one chair.

Fifteen minutes later she was done, and Lisa collapsed to the floor. There were now two piles of money where there had been one, and Bob had to admit that even he was impressed with the results. He stuffed the loose piles into the bags and zipped them up before turning back to his new pet.

Lisa knelt hunched over on the concrete floor, even though it hurt her knees. The pain helped her concentrate and kept her from losing control. She had never turned that much at once, and the exertion had left her gasping for air.

"There's just one more thing I need you to do today," said Bob.

"Please," she gasped. "I need to rest."

"It's just a small thing," he said.

Lisa stumbled back as he pointed a gun at her.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to shoot you. You're much too valuable. I want a copy of this." Bob spun the pistol around in his hand and offered it to Lisa.

Reluctantly, she reached up and took it. Anticipating her next request, he slid a chair over to her so she would have material to work with. "You realize that it will be an exact duplicate," she said, "right down to the serial number."

"Understood," he answered. "Now get on with it."

She strained to make the metal take shape in her hands, and after a minute she had two guns. It wasn't until that moment that she realized that this man never intended to let her go. He would just keep using her, turning her into a factory for money and weapons until the day that she wasn't any use to him anymore. And then he would kill her. She pointed the guns at his chest and pulled the triggers.

Both of the weapons clicked harmlessly as she tried several times. There were no bullets in them. Defeated, she dropped the guns to the floor and started to cry.

"I'm very disappointed in you, my dear," chided Bob, sarcastically. "So ungrateful for everything I'm going to do for you. I suppose I'm going to have to teach you a lesson." He walked over and picked up the guns and tossed them into one of the duffel bags. "Mr. Pain. It's time you paid a visit to the young lady's mother."

"No!" screamed Lisa. She leapt to her feet and charged at the stocky man. Her fists pound futilely against his muscular frame until he caught one of her fists in his hand. Lisa felt like her arm was being shredded and ripped off until he threw her back. She collapsed on the ground, writhing in agony.

Through her haze of pain, she heard him pick up the bags of money and leave. Despite her own suffering, all she could think about was her mother and the monster that was coming to knock on her door. There was nothing she could do to stop that now. If only she hadn't tried to shoot him, she could have spared her mother from suffering at the hands of that sociopath. Of all the tortures Bob could have conceived, this one was the worst.

"It seems you still have some spirit left in you," said Bob, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm going to have to cure you of that." He walked up to Lisa as she lay weeping on the floor. Once again flames leaped from his hand, quickly growing in intensity. "You're very pretty, so this is a shame. Maybe when half of your face is burned away, you'll realize Prince Charming is not coming to save you."

He swung his hand down so that a jet of flame hit her in the side of her head. She could feel the biting heat as her hair burned away and her skin started to blister. Instinctively, she held up her hands to protect herself. As the fire struck her hand, her other hand also burst into flame. She pushed her arms forward and the return fire caught Smilin' Bob unaware. His shirt caught fire and he ran around slapping at the flames until his whole torso was engulfed. Realizing what was happening, she began to concentrate and hit him with another blast. He ran halfway across the warehouse screaming before he finally collapsed and was silent.

From the doorway one of the masked men came rushing toward her and she turned the fire on him. He instantly lit up from head to toe, like he was a gas-soaked rag. He thrashed for a few seconds before succumbing to the heat and smoke.

She looked at her burning hands. They hurt like she was holding a pot from the oven, but they were not damaged by the fire. The shock and adrenaline wouldn't let her feel the pain yet, but she knew using her gift always came with a price. As the flames grew hotter they began to sting more and more. Like she had seen Smilin' Bob do before, she made a fist and shook her hand until the flames went out.

She gagged at the smell of burning clothes and flesh, and then she remembered that part of that stench was coming from her own head. But she couldn't be vain, not now. Her mother needed her. On the ground she found the gun the guard had been carrying lying beside his still smoldering corpse. She picked it up and headed out the door.

As Lisa opened the door, she was surprised to find it was already early evening. Although her torture had seemed like it had lasted for days, she knew it was really less than an hour. She must have been unconscious for most of the afternoon.

The entrance opened up on to a wide lane in a row of old warehouses. She spotted a black van, presumably the same one that they had used to abduct her. She started toward it.

As she stepped through the door, it slammed closed. She was grabbed from behind and thrown up against the wall. The other masked man from the van had been waiting for her. He had not bothered to put his hood back on and she could see the contempt clearly on his face. "Drop the gun," he ordered. She had no choice but to let the pistol fall to the ground.

He jammed his gun into her throat making her wince as he pressed against the burnt flesh. "Lucky for you, I have very specific orders against killing you. If you ask me, you're more trouble than you're worth." With his other hand he pulled out a small cylinder. Lisa recognized it as the same one he'd used to drug her earlier. She only had seconds to act.

Pinned to the wall, she desperately searched for something to fight off her attacker. As she grabbed hold of the door handle, she had a sudden inspiration. While he was distracted trying to pull off the lid from the spray with one hand, she brought her other hand up to where he held the gun and managed to make half of his gun dissolve. Surprised by the sudden disappearance of his weapon, he pulled the trigger but it was already too late. It was a useless pile of scrap, and he tossed it away.

He swung his arm back to punch her in the face, but he never landed the blow. Lisa swung the jagged, half-formed door handle into his neck. She must have hit an artery, because his blood sprayed out like a fountain all over her jacket. He let her go and staggered back. Lisa didn't hesitate. She reached down and picked up the gun she had dropped. Without even bothering to aim, she fired point blank into his chest half-a-dozen times.

Lisa stood there over his body, gun still pointed at him as if he might get up again. She was stunned by how quickly it had all happened. A few hours ago, she was going about her own business and not bothering anyone. She had been kidnapped, exploited, tortured and maimed. Now she had killed three men and was off to find her fourth. But she realized she couldn't think about it now. If she did, she wouldn't be able to finish the job.

Lisa went through the man's pockets and found the keys to the van and his phone. Frantically, she called her mother to warn her, but the call went to voicemail. Lisa got in the van and started it up.

She stopped when she saw herself in the rear-view mirror. For the first time, she saw the extent of the damage to her face. The entire right side of her head from her neck to above her ear was burned away. The flames had narrowly missed taking out her eye. Her flesh was raw and blistered, blacked and crisp around the edges where it had been cooked. Half her lip was just gone, and her teeth poked through from underneath. She was surprised by how little it hurt, but she knew that only meant that the nerves had been destroyed. There was nothing left there to feel the pain.

Then she saw something she didn't believe at first. As Lisa looked at her wounds, the edges seemed to be receding. The damaged red skin stitched itself together and gradually returned to its normal caramel hue, as if the burns had ever happened. It was slow and gradual, but she could see it happening as she watched. At any other time it would have been remarkable, but she didn't have the time. It was just one more thing to worry about later.

Checking the map on the phone, she found she was clear across town, a half-an-hour drive to get home. She threw the van in gear and sped away from the warehouse. She was making good time for a Friday evening until she hit gridlock. A fire had closed off the street ahead of her, jamming up traffic for blocks. Lisa parked the van and got out. It would be hours before they sorted out that mess. Hopefully, it would slow down Pain as well.

She ran down the street cutting through alleys she had known since she was a child. With her bloody, torn and singed clothing and her burns, she drew more than a few looks from passers-by. She ignored them. She was only a few minutes away from home.

There was a limo double-parked in front of her building. It was obviously something that Smilin' Bob would travel in, and Pain hadn't taken the van. She was too late. He was already inside.

She had searched the back of the van for her purse, but either they had dropped it when they had grabbed her, or they had already taken everything of value and tossed it. Either way she would have to break into her own home. She gripped the butt of the gun in her pocket and pressed her palm to wooden door over the lock bolt. In two seconds it dissolved and the door was unlocked. She swung the door open and charged into the lobby.

She smashed the button a dozen times as she waited impatiently for the elevator to arrive. When it finally did, she barely waited for the doors to open before she charged in. She punched in her floor and leaned against the rail for the agonizingly slow ride up to her apartment. She caught her reflection in the trim around the paneling. Her burns were gone, completely healed. Except for the still missing patch of hair on the side of her head, there was no evidence of that she had ever been injured. As she touched the bald spot in disbelief, the elevator doors opened, startling her back to reality.

She rushed out into the hallway and ran to her apartment door. She took the gun out of her pocket and tried the door. It was unlocked and opened to her touch. She heard a rustling in the kitchen and made her way down the hall.

"Lisa, is that you?" Her mother called. Down the hall and around the corner, she could not see her mother, but she certainly didn't sound like a woman being tortured. "You're home late I was getting worried."

"I'm fine," Lisa answered. "I guess I just lost track of time." It was the normalcy of the situation that disturbed her the most. She had expected to find her frail mother lying dead on the floor, not puttering around in the kitchen making a pot of tea. She realized she was still wearing her blood-soaked jacket. Slipping it off, she balled it up and threw it in the bottom of the hall closet. Staying out of sight until she could clean herself up, she asked, "Did you have something to eat?"

"No, I'm still not very hungry," she said. "But I just had a lovely cup of tea with your friend."

Lisa froze. "My friend?"

"Yes, the young man who returned your purse. We've just been having the loveliest chat. He's waiting for you in the dining room. You didn't tell me you lost your purse."

Lisa cautiously walked toward the dining room with the gun behind her back. As she entered the room, she saw Mr. Pain sitting at her table sipping from one of their good china teacups. Sure enough, her purse was propped up on the table beside him. When he saw her, he lowered the cup and smiled. Lisa was just about to pull the gun when her mom walked in the room. She quickly hid the gun again. "I only lost it a few hours ago. That was one of the reasons why I was so late."

"It's lucky he found it so quickly then. Have you eaten? I could make you something if you're hungry."

"No, that's all right," said Lisa. "I had a big lunch. If I get hungry later, I'll make myself some soup or something."

"All right, dear. Now that you're home, I'm going to go and lie down for a while. It was lovely to meet you Carlos."

"Get some rest," said Lisa, "and I'll come and check on you in a while."

Lisa's mom smiled and squinted at her. "Did you get a haircut? I don't have my glasses, but from what I can tell it looks nice. A little short though."

Remembering the bald spot, she stroked her scalp with her free hand. "Thanks. You go and rest now. I'll take care of...Carlos." Lisa waited for her mother to leave the room before she drew the gun on Pain. The big man sat motionless, grinning at her.

"I don't know what you're playing at, but I've already killed three people today, including your boss. The only reason you're not dead is that you didn't touch my mother."

Mr. Pain continued to sit dispassionately smiling at her, seemingly oblivious to the danger he was in. It was as if he didn't care that she held a pistol in his face, like he knew something she didn't. Or he was waiting for something. She heard the front door open and close and footsteps coming down the hall. She turned around to face the new, unseen threat.

Agony shot through her arm, sending her body into spasms. She couldn't hold on to the gun, and it fell harmlessly to the floor. Apparently, Mr. Pain could move fast when he needed to. That wasn't something she would have expected from a guy with his build. In the instant she was distracted, he had silently moved halfway across the room and disabled her.

Though her suffering was excruciating, she managed to keep a clear head this time. She swung around and grabbed Pain by the throat with her free hand. She began to concentrate and channel his gift back at him. She felt the agony in her own arm bleed away into nothing. But Mr. Pain did not show any sign of feeling what she felt. Instead he only looked confused, and a little surprised.

"I'm afraid that won't work on him as it did on me," said Smilin' Bob. "You see, while Mr. Pain is effective at dishing out his namesake, he doesn't have the capacity to feel it himself. That is a trait I envy today."

Short of breath from her exertion, Lisa managed to sputter, "I...I thought you were..."

"Dead?" interrupted Bob. He picked up the gun off of the floor with a handkerchief and then nodded to Mr. Pain to release her. "No, it's going to take a lot more than that to kill me. But I'm sure you're aware by now that our kind doesn't give up easily." He stroked his now bald head and upper lip. "Don't worry," he added, "the hair will grow back, but only at its normal rate."

"I don't understand. How is this possible? I was never able to heal like this before."

"It seems you can copy powers as well as objects, at least for a while. And now and then when two people with powers come together there can be...unpredictable results."

A sudden thought struck Lisa. "If I can heal myself, can I heal others?"

"It's hard to say what you can do until you try," said Bob. "Ah, but you're thinking of your mother, aren't you? Go ahead. We'll wait. But don't get your hopes up."

Lisa looked at the two men standing in her dining room. It took her a moment to realize that Smilin' Bob was serious. She walked down the hall to her mother's bedroom and as quietly as she could she slipped inside. She was lying on top of the covers, asleep.

Lisa knelt at her bedside and placed her hands on her mother's brow and hip. She tried to concentrate and channel her energy into her. She tried to destroy the cancer eating away at her insides. But for all her efforts, nothing happened. There was no miracle, no shining light, no sensation at all. For all her abilities, she still couldn't heal her mother, of that she was certain.

She brushed the hair from her mom's eyes and stared at her face for a minute or two. A tear rolled down her cheek as she kissed her. Not wanting to disturb her sleep, she slipped back into the hallway, as quietly as she had come in.

Mr. Pain was standing in front of the apartment door blocking the only exit. As Lisa approached him, he nodded ever so slightly toward the living room. Smilin' Bob was sitting on her couch, a glass of her whiskey in his hand. When she walked in the room, he asked, "So what's the verdict?"

The look on her face gave him his answer. Defeated, Lisa slumped down against the wall. "So what now. Do you kill me?"

"Kill you?" said Bob. "Where did you get an idea like that? If anything you're more valuable now. But I must apologize. I have been all stick and no carrot." He stood up and walked over to her, stooping down to look her in the eyes. "What if I told you that there was someone who could cure your mother? What would that be worth to you?"

He must have seen a faint glimmer of hope there, because he started to smile. She looked back at him and said, "If you can cure my mother, I'll give you anything you want."

"Sold!" declared Bob. "There's a new player in town, a healer, or so I'm told. She's fallen under the wing of that sorry preacher Papa Bear Foster, but he owes me a few favors. Of course, it won't be cheap. I'll need you to make my investment in you worthwhile. And of course if your mother's life isn't enough incentive, consider your own. Remember there are two dead men and a gun with your fingerprints on it."

He drained the glass of whiskey and slammed it down on a nearby table, unceremoniously. "Welcome to the organization, Miss Parker. I'll be in touch with your first assignment shortly." He strode to the front door and Mr Pain opened it for him. As he left he added, "Get some rest. We have a lot of work ahead of us."

Mr. Pain stood in the doorway. In a tiny, squeaky voice that belied his size, he said, "Thank you for the tea."

# Untouched

## Joe

Joe Bagadonas sat on his couch, trying to stay awake. He had not slept much in days, and the fatigue was starting to wear on him. The television was blaring out one of those horrible, melodramatic documentaries about ancient aliens visiting our planet centuries ago. He chuckled to himself. Anyone with half a brain could see it for the nonsense it was, but still he didn't turn it off. He needed to keep his eyes open. The ghost always came when he fell asleep.

It wasn't that he believed in ghosts, but he didn't know what else to call it. He'd always believed the world was a rational, explainable place, even if he didn't have all the answers, but the last few months had left him questioning his own sanity. Whenever he fell asleep, doors in the apartment would open and close by themselves, lights would turn on and off, and books would be knocked off of their shelves.

At first, he'd thought he was just being absent-minded. He was sixty-six, so his memory was bound to be a little fuzzy now and then. Clara had always helped to keep him on track, but his wife was three years gone now. After almost four decades of marriage, he had not relished the thought of spending his remaining years alone. He'd continued on with his life, but every day was a struggle.

As a rule, Joe preferred to keep to himself. Clara had been the outgoing one of the pair, always dragging him to parties and dinners with friends. He didn't mind going out when she was there to break the ice for him, but without her, he was awkward and socially inept. Given the choice, he would rather have been studying the crystal structure of a new alloy in his old lab than making small talk about the weather, but now that he had retired, even that wasn't an option.

Over time, their old friends become more distant, and he saw them less and less until finally they stopped calling him all together. Joe saw staying away as a kindness to them. He wanted to spare them from having to feel sorry for him all the time. He didn't want to be known as "poor old Joe". But now after years of pushing everyone away, he found he had no one left to turn to with his ghost problem.

He woke to the sound of a loud thump as the books fell off the shelf again. He had nodded off in front of the television and had started dreaming about Louise, the woman he had met while walking along the boardwalk last fall. They were strolling along the beach when suddenly a huge wave had crashed into the shore threatening to wash him away. Joe checked the clock on the wall. He had been asleep for less than two hours, and he was still exhausted. In spite of that, he knew he would get no more sleep tonight, so he resigned himself to picking up the fallen books and placing them back in order on the shelf.

Most of the books had belonged to Clara. She had loved to read. Joe held on to them mostly for the sentimental value. He hated to throw away anything that had been hers. His closet was still full of her clothes, and her makeup still sat on the vanity in their bedroom. While sometimes it saddened him to be constantly reminded of her, in an odd way it was comforting as well, so the apartment remained as she had left it. Perhaps a small part of him still believed that she wasn't really gone, and she would be upset if she came back to find her belongings packed up in boxes or given away.

He smelled something burning and rushed to the kitchen just as the smoke alarm began to wail. A box of cereal that he had left out on the counter had toppled over on to the stove. The cardboard smoldered where it rested against the hot element. He snatched up the box and damped the embers with the tips of his fingers. Another minute and it would have been on fire, quickly followed by the rest of the kitchen. He spun the dial on the back panel to kill the power to the heating coil. The stove had not been used for days. He would never have left it on that long without noticing.

Joe decided that he'd had enough. He would have to get rid of this ghost before it killed him. Sitting down at his computer, his hands hovered over the keyboard as he wondered what he should search for. There was no shortage of people claiming to talk to the dead, but he knew he could ignore them. In his youth, Joe had spent a couple of summers working the carnival circuit, and he knew that most, if not all, so-called psychics were charlatans. They would make a few educated guesses and butter you up with platitudes, all the while milking you for all the cash they could get. It was just a set of cheap magic tricks to separate the vulnerable and grieving from their inheritances.

The sun was starting to come up when he found the website for a group of paranormal investigators who claimed to use a scientific approach to ghost research. While to Joe that still seemed like a contradiction in terms, they were the best he could find. He wrote an email explaining his situation and sent it off.

While he waited for a response, he went to the kitchen to make himself some breakfast. He picked the charred edges away from the cereal box and poured himself a bowl, mechanically shoveling the food into his mouth. With all the stress he was under, he didn't have much of an appetite and gave up halfway through.

Joe looked at the clock again. It was just past seven. With a sudden rush of excitement, he remembered that Louise liked to walk her dogs down by the beach in the mornings. If he hurried he might catch her there. What he needed more than anything was to be around other people.

He poured the half-empty bowl down the sink drain and then, remembering the fire, stored the cereal back in the pantry cupboard. He took a quick shower to help wake himself up. Afterwards, as he shaved, he checked himself in the mirror and thought that, despite the gray hair and wrinkles, he was still pretty good-looking for a man his age. If not for the bags under his eyes, he might pass for a man ten years younger than he really was. Encouraged by his self-affirmation, he got dressed and hurried out the door.

Being a Friday in early spring, the beach was nearly deserted at this time of day. He wandered about for almost an hour, but he didn't see any sign of Louise. Joe was starting to get tired, so he headed toward the pier to rest before heading home. He sat down on a bench and looked out at the water.

He started to remember all the times that he and Clara had sat and watched the sunset together in this very spot. In fact, it was here that she had told him that she couldn't have children. They had held each other and cried, and he had told her it didn't matter; she was all the family he needed. He closed his eyes and wiped away the tears. How he wished that she was here now.

"I'm sorry, but you can't sleep here." A firm hand on his shoulder gently shook him awake. Joe opened his eyes and looked up to see a bicycle cop standing over him.

"What? Oh, sorry officer. I must have nodded off."

"No problem, sir," said the cop. "Have a good day."

As the cop and his partner rode away, Joe checked his watch. It was already half-past noon and the sun was beating down on the beach making it too warm for his spring jacket despite the breeze. He stood up and took it off, folding it over the backrest of the bench before sitting down again. Taking a minute to wake up, he rubbed the grit from his eyes and yawned.

He thought about how things had changed in the months since Clara had passed. She never would have let him sink this far, sleeping on a park bench like some hobo. If he wasn't careful soon he would be wandering the streets, talking to himself, and pushing a shopping cart full of cans. He leaned forward and rested his head in his palms trying to summon the strength for the walk home.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

Joe recognized that voice. When he looked up, he saw Louise and her two pups, and he smiled. For once, being kept awake by a poltergeist had worked in his favor. If he hadn't fallen asleep, he probably would have missed them. "Hello," he said. "Yes, it's so warm." He bent down to scratch one of the dogs behind his ears. They were both rescue mutts but were mostly from terrier stock. "I thought you usually took them out in the morning."

"I do, but I had a dentist appointment, so I had to go downtown."

"Oh, I see," he mumbled. Despite desperately wanting to talk to her, he could not think of a single thing to say. He continued to pet the dogs, partly as a cover for the awkward pause, but also because it kept her from walking away.

She sat down on the bench next to him. "Are you feeling all right?" she asked. "You look a little tired."

"Honestly, I haven't been getting much sleep lately."

"You poor dear," she said. "You're not getting sick, are you?"

"No," he said, trying to think how to explain it without sounding crazy. "It's more like a problem with the neighbors. I just had to get out of the apartment for a while."

"That's terrible. You should complain to the landlord."

"It's complicated," he said. "I'm not sure there's much that can be done about it, but I've made a call to someone who might help. Hopefully I can get it sorted out soon."

"Still, it's too bad. If there's one thing I can't abide, it's inconsiderate people."

"I feel the same way." Joe looked out at the water. The wind was starting to pick up, and the waves were hitting the shore with some force now.

"Listen, if you still need to get out of the house tomorrow, I was planning on having a picnic on the beach. Why don't you join us?"

"I...I would love to," he answered.

"Good," she said. "It's settled then."

They sat and talked for another twenty minutes, mostly about meaningless things like television shows and the weather. To Joe, it didn't matter what the topic of conversation was. He was happy to have someone to talk with. It wasn't until a few months ago that he had realized how much he had missed just talking with other people.

The surf continued to grow until it was pounding against the pier. The sound of the waves forced then to raise their voices almost to the point of shouting at each other. "It looks like the wind's picking up," Louise remarked and stood up. "I guess it's time I should be going anyway. I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"I'm looking forward to it," he answered. "Should I bring anything?"

"Just yourself," she said. "I'll meet you here at the pier around noon."

Buoyed by the lucky encounter and the invitation, Joe hurried home. The only question on his mind was how he would kill the time between now and tomorrow. He made himself a sandwich and sat down at his computer. Remembering the winds, he checked to make sure a storm wasn't on the way, but the forecast promised perfect picnic weather with clear skies and light winds.

While he was sitting there, Joe decided to check his messages. In his inbox was a reply from the ghost people who were very excited about his letter and had asked if they could come over and check out the apartment that night. Anxious to get the matter resolved as soon as he could, Joe agreed and sent out the invitation. He spent the rest of the day cleaning up. If he was going to have guests, he wanted the place to look good.

He was just finishing a light supper when the phone rang. It was the investigators at the front door, so Joe buzzed them in. When they got to his apartment, he was surprised by how young they were. There were three of them, two boys and a girl, and they looked like they were barely out of high school. One of them wore a t-shirt with a logo that said Ghost Baggers and had a blobby cartoon spirit locked in a cage. So far, Joe was not impressed, but he was desperate and had nothing to lose.

"Hi, I'm Zoey, and this is Nick and Randy." She gingerly shook his hand as if he were made of glass. The two boys each set down a duffel bag that, when opened, appeared to be full of electronic equipment. "We'll just need an hour or so to set up and get properly calibrated."

"What is all this stuff?" Joe asked.

It was Nick who answered. "Cameras to capture anything we see, along with microphones and recording gear to pick up the audio. We also have some specialized equipment to pick up electromagnetic and thermal changes."

"Right," said Joe. "So what does that all have to do with ghosts?"

"We often see sudden drops in temperature when ghosts are around," said Zoey. "We believe the spirit is drawing energy from its surroundings, hence the cold spots."

"But aren't you just jumping to unwarranted conclusions?"

"What do you mean?" she asked in return.

"Well, what evidence do you have that these cold spots are caused by ghosts?" asked Joe. "It's the same as me saying the faucet drips, therefore leprechauns. You're just replacing one mystery with an even more complicated one."

Zoey seemed to be used to this sort of criticism. Without missing a beat, she said, "You just have to trust that we know what we're doing. We've been investigating these sorts of cases for almost two years now."

Joe nearly choked trying not to laugh. Maybe when you're under twenty, two years seemed like a lifetime, but to him it was almost nothing. Nevertheless, he still needed answers even if his patience was wearing thin. "What do you need me to do?"

"Just answer a few questions for me," she said. Randy emerged from the bedroom, and she called out to him. Are we set up in there? I want to do the interview now."

The boy nodded. "It's good to go, but don't adjust the frame this time. I've got it just where I want it. Here, use the handheld on a tripod instead, and you can set it up however you like." He took a camera bag from around his neck and handed it to her.

Zoey dug through one on the duffel bags and pulled out a camera tripod. Scooping him up by the elbow, she led Joe into the bedroom. In one corner, a camera was set up to cover the entire room. She sat him down on the bed while she fiddled with the tripod. "I'm just going to ask you some background questions about yourself and what you've experienced, all right?"

"Are you conducting an investigation or filming a reality show?" asked Joe.

"We like to be thorough," she answered.

She stood up, apparently finished setting up the second camera. After taking a moment to check her hair in the vanity mirror, she took Joe by the shoulders and positioned him to get the best angle. She had him state his name and did a short introduction before getting to the background questions.

"Now tell me, how long have you lived in the apartment?"

"Almost twenty years," he said.

"And you're the only one who lives here?" she asked.

"Yes," Joe answered. "For three years since my wife passed."

"What phenomena have you witnessed?"

"I've never actually seen anything happen with my own eyes. Things always go wrong when I'm asleep. When I wake up, books will be on the floor, or the cupboard doors will all be open."

"And the doors and windows are locked from the inside?"

"That's right," said Joe. "The first few times it happened I thought it was pretty weird, but I just shrugged it off as old age. Later I thought I might be sleepwalking, so I did things like put some talc on the floor to capture my footprints and tie my leg to the bed with string so it would wake me up, but those didn't work. Strange things just kept happening."

"So how long has this been going on?" asked Zoey.

"Hmm, let me think," answered Joe. "It must be almost six months now, off and on. Since the fall. But it's only been really bad the past few weeks."

"How is it worse? What's changed?"

Joe thought about it for a moment, wondering if he should bring up Louise. He decided it was best to leave her out of it. "Nothing really. It's just been a lot more frequent, and today it – whatever it is – almost started a fire in the kitchen."

"Do you think it's your wife trying to communicate with you?"

Joe's lips went tight and thin as he stifled the impulse to yell at her. He couldn't believe the impertinence of this girl. "No," he said, holding back his anger. "I don't believe that."

Joe could tell by her expression that she knew that she had crossed a line, so he wasn't surprised when Zoey decided to wrap it up. She picked up the handheld camera by the tripod and started to carry it out of the room. "Thanks, that was great. I think I have everything I need."

The fatigue of too many days without enough sleep was catching up with Joe again. With the kids around, he decided it was probably safe if he closed his eyes for a few hours. "If you don't mind, I'm kind of tired and I need to lie down for a while. That's when things happen anyway, so there's no point waiting. There are drinks in the fridge and snacks in the tall pantry cupboard. Help yourself."

"Thanks," she said. "I'll tell the guys to keep the noise down,"

Joe reminded himself that he was short on options. Even though these kids had no idea what they were doing, and he was ready to toss them out the door just for bringing up his wife, he still needed them. If nothing else, they could confirm that something was happening in this apartment. They might even get it on tape. At the very least, it would prove that he wasn't crazy.

Joe lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling for ten minutes. It was hard to relax with strangers wandering around in the other room and a camera trained on him. He took a book from the nightstand and started to read, hoping that a good detective story might take his mind off of the circus going on outside his bedroom.

He woke the sounds of shouting. He climbed out of bed and went out into the living room to find no one there. Running as fast as his old legs would take him, he found the two boys gathered around Zoey, who was lying unconscious on the kitchen floor. A thin stream of blood ran down her temple.

"What happened?" asked Joe.

"The frying pan flew off the stove and hit her in the head," said Randy. "It was awesome!"

"Shut up," Nick shot back. "I think she's really hurt. We need to get her to the hospital."

Zoey groaned and opened her eyes. She sat up and propped her back against the kitchen cupboard.

"Are you okay?" asked Nick.

Zoey looked up at him, excited. "Tell me you got that on camera."

"She's fine," said Randy.

"You were out for like, two minutes. We need to get you checked out. You might have a concussion." Nick helped her to her feet. She was unsteady but quickly got her balance.

"I'm all right," she insisted.

Joe stared in disbelief. It was one thing when he thought he was seeing things, but with witnesses and physical evidence, all of this had suddenly become very real. "You all need to leave. Take your stuff and get out."

Zoey pleaded, "But we've just had a breakthrough. This is the best..."

Joe cut her off. "No, this has gone far enough. People are getting hurt." He looked at Nick and said, "You need to take her to the emergency room. Drag her there if you have to. Randy can stay to pack up your stuff."

"Look, I'm fine," Zoey insisted. "We can't leave now! We're so close to uncovering the truth."

Joe was adamant. "If you're not out of here in fifteen minutes, I'm calling the cops." He stormed off to the bedroom and marched straight to the camera there. He picked it up and started walking out with it until the power cord pulled it back. He put the tripod down to go and unplug the camera.

Zoey marched in holding a makeshift bandage of folded paper towels to the side of her head. "I can see you're upset, but if you can just calm down for a moment, we can look at this rationally."

"You can look at this rationally all you want from out in the hallway." Having pulled the plug, he carried the camera through the living room and out the door where he unceremoniously set it down. As he stomped back into the apartment, he growled, "Twelve minutes."

He almost bumped into Randy who was carrying the camera from the kitchen. The frying pan was still lying on the floor where it had landed. Joe picked it up and placed it in the sink. There were three small spots of blood on the floor from where the girl had been lying. He wadded up a handful of paper towels and bent down to clean them up.

From the living room he could hear Nick talking in hushed tones. "Look we got some great video, but the old guy is obviously freaking out. Hell, I don't blame him. I'm freaking out, too. But if we don't go now, we're going to lose any chance at a follow-up."

Joe strode past them on his way to the bathroom. They looked like the were almost done and would be gone soon. He checked his watch. "Eight minutes."

He closed the bathroom door behind him and ran the water in the sink. Leaning in on the counter, he took a good look at himself in the mirror. It wasn't anger or concern that he saw there. It was panic. Raw and naked fear.

There was a knock on the bathroom door. "All right, we're leaving," called Nick. "You know how to contact us if you change your mind." He paused as if considering what to say. "Please, just do me one favor," he pleaded. "Don't go through this alone. Get some help. If not us, then somebody."

He heard Nick's footsteps as he left, and then the door open and close. Once again, he was alone. Joe sat down on the edge of the bathtub with his head in his hands. He knew that he needed help from someone, but it wouldn't be from a bunch of kids who are just here for the freak show. Clara had always tried to get him to go to a therapist, but he had always refused. She was all the help he had ever needed. But now that she was gone, he had to seriously reconsider it.

That wouldn't help with his immediate problem, however, and that was all he could worry about for the time being. Whatever he was going to do, it would have to be soon. He couldn't survive much longer the way he was going. What he needed was to get out of here, to give himself some time to think clearly. The only place he could think to go was Shenanigan's, the bar at the corner of the next block. He would wind up there sometimes to watch a game or just to be surrounded by people. It seemed like a safe place to hole up for a few hours, and he desperately needed a drink.

It was already dark by the time he hit the sidewalk. It was still warm out, but the strong breeze that was still blowing made him stick his hands in his pockets and hunch over to keep warm. The bar was crowded, but he found an empty table in the corner where he would be out of the way. After he had tossed back one scotch and ordered another, he started to feel better.

He tried to think about what to do next. The ghost hunters had been a bust. The police would just ignore him or worse, lock him up in the psycho ward. Joe thought about trying to take his story to the media, but he quickly reconsidered. Any outlet who would buy his story probably wouldn't have any credibility, and he would just wind up as a laughing stock.

Joe needed to take care of this quietly, and that meant only one thing – he was going to have to move. As much as he treasured all the memories in that apartment, they weren't worth dying for. He thought that perhaps it was for the best. Clara would never have wanted him languishing in the past anyway. She had wanted him to move on with his life, and had told him so many times before she had died. As long as he was living there, a part of him was stuck back in the days when she was still around. It would be painful to say goodbye to his longtime home, but it was better than the alternative.

It was already past midnight, however, and it was far too late to do anything about it now. He knew he couldn't sleep another night at home. It was too dangerous to go back there. Besides, he was a little too drunk and tired to walk all the way back home and start packing. Right now, what he needed more than anything was a solid eight hours of sleep.

There was a small hotel next to the bar. It wasn't anything fancy, but it was affordable and, more importantly, close by. He rented a room and stumbled into it. Not even bothering to get undressed, he collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep slumber.

When Joe woke in the morning, he had trouble remembering where he was. And then, as the events of last night wormed their way back into his head, he sighed and opened his eyes. To his surprise, everything that was not nailed down had been dragged to one corner of the room, including the bed he was lying on. It was as if the hotel had been tipped on its side by some giant child playing with her dollhouse.

He swung his legs out of bed, only to bang his leg on an overturned chair. Joe cursed his clumsiness and tried to massage out the pain. And then the sudden realization came. If it was happening here, then it wasn't the apartment. It was him. There was nowhere that he could go to escape it. He was doomed.

From his watch, he saw it was already nearly ten o'clock. He limped into the bathroom and cleaned himself up as best he could. Awake now, and well rested for a change, he dragged the furniture back to where it was supposed to be using his memory and divots in the carpet as a guide before checking out of the hotel. Joe found himself alone on the street and with even less of a plan than he had last night. He couldn't think of anything else to do, so he started wandering home. If the end came, at least he would be in familiar surroundings.

He'd only gone half a block when he noticed a poster in a travel agent's window of a couple having a drink on the beach, and he remembered his promise to meet Louise for a picnic today. That had only been yesterday, but it felt more like a month since he had spoken to her. He hurried to catch the bus. He was going to have to hustle if he didn't want to be late.

Joe was almost at the bus stop when he stopped in his tracks. He couldn't drag her into the middle of his nightmare. If anything, he should turn around and get as far as he could from her. But he also knew there was nowhere else on Earth that he wanted to be more than with Louise. He was torn between his desire to be with her and the pain he knew he would inevitably cause her. It was possible that this thing would kill him before tomorrow. On the other hand, he didn't want Louise to think he didn't care enough to show up. He convinced himself that he should at least say goodbye, and dug in his pockets for change for the bus.

When he got to the pier, she was there waiting for him and waved as soon as he got off the bus. Seeing her there, Joe lost his nerve. As much as he wanted to protect her from whatever was plaguing him, he lacked the courage to end their relationship and walk away. He picked up the blanket and cooler she had brought and let her lead him down to the edge of the beach. She had picked out a nice spot under the shade of an elm tree where she could tie up the dogs. After the picnic he would tell her, he promised himself.

The smell of food triggered his appetite. He had to stop himself from gobbling down the sandwiches she had brought. Joe had not eaten since the night before, more than eighteen hours ago, but had not realized how hungry he was until he had sat down on the blanket.

They sat and talked for over an hour. He mostly listened to her talk, but they were both fine with that. She had grown used to his quiet nature, and he had become fond of her voice. When the meal was done, they both sat back and stared out at the ocean. Joe wrestled with his mixed emotions. He was glad for her company, though he knew it was for the last time.

"So are you ever going to tell me what's wrong," she said, "or do I have to beat it out of you."

"You'd only think I was crazy."

She smiled. "I already think you're crazy, so you've got nothing to lose."

Joe tried to think to think of a way to explain, but every time he would start, in his mind he could see her running away screaming from him. He had to think of a way to say goodbye without hurting her. Joe groaned and lay back in the sand. He closed his eyes and tried to call up the courage to tell her something, anything.

He felt her lips press against his and for a moment nothing else in the world mattered. It had been so long since he had felt another's touch. He had forgotten how good the simple act of being close to a woman could be. How a gentle caress could make his heart jump like he was a school boy again, he didn't know or care. For the moment, he was lost in bliss.

Still, in the back of his mind, a seed of guilt started to grow. It was like he was cheating on Clara, or he was somehow dishonoring her memory. He felt like he was sinking, and every moment Louise was slipping farther away.

His eyes popped open as he heard Louise yelp. The sand beneath him was giving way and he was slowly descending into a sinkhole. The collapsing ground was sucking down the blanket and everything else with it. The dogs, sensing that something was wrong, started barking wildly and tugged at their leashes.

Louise hopped away and shrieked, "Joe! What's happening!"

Joe managed to kick and wriggle his way out of the growing hole before it swallowed him. He sat gasping for breath as he clutched on to the trunk of the old elm tree. As suddenly as it had started, the sand stopped, leaving a half devoured blanket and cooler sticking up out of the ground. Not content with haunting his dreams, his ghost was now invading the waking world as well. It was only a matter of time before it would kill him now. There was nowhere left to hide.

"Oh my god, Joe," said Louise. "Are you alright?"

Despite his frantic state of mind, Joe almost laughed. He wanted to run, to get away, to be anywhere but here, but he was rooted to the spot. He felt cold and started to shake.

"What happened?" cried Louise. "Was that some kind of a sinkhole? Should we call someone?"

"No!" he shouted, before he could check himself. "You don't need to call anyone. There's no one who can help me now."

"Surely you don't mean that," she said. "I know you've just had a fright, but you're being hysterical. Just calm down and let's talk about it."

"You should run away from me as fast as you can," Joe said. "It's not safe."

"I'm not going anywhere." Louise moved closer until she was perched an arm's length away. Softly, she said, "Please, Joe. Don't shut me out. I want to help."

He withdrew from her, hugging the tree even tighter. One of the dogs started licking his face, but he pushed her away. Tears began to stream down his cheeks. He hadn't wanted to admit the truth, even to himself, but he couldn't hide from it any longer. "Fine. You want to know what's wrong? My dead wife is trying to kill me."

Despite the absurd nature of the claim, Louise kept a calm face and said, "Come on now, Joe. Don't be ridiculous."

"You don't understand," he said, sobbing. "This isn't the first time. Ever since we met, strange things have been happening, but now they've turned violent. She attacked someone with a frying pan yesterday and almost burned the apartment down before that. She won't rest until she's killed me!"

"Look, Joe," said Louise. "Even if that were true, which I don't think is the case, why would she be trying to hurt you? If Clara were really here, wouldn't she want you to be happy?"

Joe couldn't deny that his relationship with Clara, even with its ups and downs, had always been a loving one. There was no good reason for her to be so angry – unless she was jealous. It could only be because he was moving on and starting to get involved with another woman. That had somehow made her angry. He let go of the tree and wiped the tears from his face. He knew what he had to do. "I'm sorry, Louise. I can't see you anymore. It's just too dangerous."

"Joe, I want to help," she said, leaning in closer to try to comfort him. "Please let me help."

Joe held up his hands as though to push her away. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he saw his hands. A new wave of panic rushed through him. "My ring. My wedding ring. It's gone!"

He began to search in the grass around the tree but found nothing. Desperately, he looked around until his eyes locked on the wreckage of their picnic. It must have come off in the sand when he was struggling to get loose. He had to get it back before it was gone forever. He crawled across the beach to the sinkhole and started to dig with his hands.

Louise grabbed him by the shoulder and tried to pull him back. "Joe, stop! It isn't safe."

"No!" he shouted, shaking off her grip on him. "I have to find it. I have to." He continued to shovel through the sand, wildly flinging handfuls everywhere, but only for a minute or two. A section of the ground in front of him began to stir and well up as if something were burrowing to the surface. Worried that he might get stuck again, he scrambled back to the relative safety of the patch of grass under the tree.

The grains shifted and boiled until a glint of gold appeared. The ring began to move along the ground toward them, as if crawling by its own volition. They both watched in disbelief as it came closer and stopped just a few steps away. Then, with a suddenness that startled them both into gasping, the ring flipped into the air as if flicked by an unseen hand. Joe reached out automatically, and the ring landed neatly in Joe's outstretched palm. Stunned by what he had just seen, he closed his fist around it. He didn't know whether to jab the ring on his finger or toss it back in the sand.

Louise knelt in front of him. "Joe, I'm not sure how this is even possible, but I don't think it's your wife doing this. I think it was you all along. You were so afraid to let go, because you thought it meant losing the last part of Clara. But all this time, it was just an excuse to keep everyone away, to keep you from getting hurt."

Joe looked up at her, speechless. In his heart, he knew she was right. However impossible it was, they had seen it with their own eyes. His fear and pain had manifested as a vengeful spirit, but it was Joe who was the ultimate cause of his own suffering. He closed his fingers around the ring and clutched it to his chest. In a voice barely loud enough to hear, he whispered, "I miss her."

Louise took him in her arms and kissed him on the top of his head. She cradled him against her chest and whispered back, "I know. I know."

## End of Book 1

Thanks to everyone who took the time to read this and give me your feedback.

The story continues in Book Two – _Unlikely & Other Stories._

