ã€ŠBarred - Arc of Souls 1ã€‹


 PROLOGUE - COUNCIL

    November 1887¡ªFreemont, Mississippi

    The young man, bound facedown to the table, quit his struggling. Gallons of sweat stained the hard oak beneath him, and his chaffed, cut wrists bled against his back from around the taut leather binding. His blonde hair hung askew, matted, and plastered clumsily to his cheeks. Spasms wracked his spent muscles, rendering further struggle pointless. Any movement was almost involuntary. He knew this now.

    His judges knew all along and waited on him to realize for himself.

    From the table¡¯s head, the Council Marshal rose, his chair emitting a light, grating whine against the wooden floor, and beckoned someone from the shadows. Into the flickering lamplight stepped a man obviously far from home. His long, formal morning coat and matching trousers blended with the room¡¯s shadows in an ominous form. He seemed only a disembodied head and clasped hands floating into view. No working man in Freemont wore such frippery or affected such a demeanor.

    He spoke and removed all doubt of his origin.

    ¡°Thank you, gentlemen, for entertaining my request. For a half century, our government has sought allegiance with your Council. And after this recent incident,¡± the Washington man¡¯s eyes slid coldly over the trussed up, gasping form on the table, ¡°we are grateful an agreement can be struck.¡±

    The gathering grumbled and murmured asides. Trust among this community came hard. Outsiders were not only unwelcome but considered threats when allowed so much access. If not for the insistence of their Council Marshall and his top lieutenant, no one would listen. Certainly, this spectacle, lashing one of their own to the table and watching the hope drain from him, would not have happened. They would have simply executed judgement and been done. Grant it, this case¡¯s only fair judgement equated to execution, but at least, they¡¯d preserve the man¡¯s dignity.

    A gavel rapped repeatedly, hard and loud, across the space, bringing the room to order. The attendees quieted, but many of the faces betrayed an emotion far from chagrin. Their distrust and anger grew as their patience waned. Trust had a limit of both time and credulity. Theatrics would not improve the quantity of either. The Council Marshal sympathized, yet he knew that after whatever came next, none would dispute this new alliance. Or, if they did, the risk would be their own.

    He motioned for the outsider to continue, and the man assumed the posture of a humble school master.

    ¡°Each of you is proof that the grand architects of our world thought you worthy of much more than mortal flesh. For you, they gifted the ability to run among the beasts and fly among the birds as one of them¡ªas more, than them. But what do you know of others: branches, kin, like unto yet quite different from yourselves?¡±

    The man paused. His eyes roamed amongst the seated, waiting. The question was not rhetorical, and the more his audience knew¡ªor was willing to accept, the easier they would agree with an alignment. Of course, their leaders understood. They were learned, traveled men, who from their youth saw the world widening; extended themselves with it; and brought those lessons back to better their own. Still, their own had been too slow in adapting, their leaders too timid in guiding. Tradition ran deeper than a coal vein here. Only seeing equaled believing. Thus, he showed them.

    ¡°May I?¡± The man asked softly of the Council Marshal.

    ¡°Proceed.¡±

    ¡°Elfie,¡± the man pronounced hardly audible enough to be heard more than two seats away, ¡°you may enter.¡±

    Hinges squeaked on the opening door of the adjoining hall. All heads snapped quickly, most having only heard a murmur from the man, if anything at all. A silhouette shadowed the doorway. Seconds later the silhouette disappeared, as if only a shadow cast by clouds over the moon. Yet, almost simultaneously, a slight breeze passed through the room, stirring hair and shirt collars.

    Mouths gawped at the figure now standing beside the man. A woman, no older than twenty years but with a demeanor and poise of one who¡¯d lived a hundred lives. A moment of protest arose at the woman¡¯s arrival; the Council Marshal silenced their objections with another rap of the gavel.

    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Before we go further,¡± the man¡¯s tone blackened, ¡°we must deal with this.¡±

    His hand extended toward the man lying on the table. The bound man swallowed hard, his breath ragged and body drained. He managed to turn his head away from the stranger and toward his father, whose matching sapphire eyes flamed with empathetic pain, met his instantly, and did not look away.

    Behind him, the stranger continued, ¡°Am I correct that the penalty for his crime would be death?¡±

    The man¡¯s father blinked heavily yet remained focused on his son as he answered, ¡°He took lives in cold blood. There ain¡¯t no question. His life is required.¡±

    Silence descended on the room. A father¡¯s condemnation. A son¡¯s acceptance. What more was there left to say? Except from one.

    ¡°Sir,¡± the man¡¯s voice was a command calling all eyes to his own, ¡°if your son could be spared death, be allowed to walk and work among his fellow man, would any other penalty do?¡±

    Long moments passed. No one dared answer in the father¡¯s place for none knew what the stranger proposed. Yet all might have entreated for justice of their own kind. Still, not a word breeched the silence.

    ¡°A devil¡¯s bargain?¡± The father managed.

    The stranger¡¯s mouth twitched as if to smirk. Yet, his words remained stoic. ¡°No devils. No gods. Only the use of those powers granted to us select few. Only a moment¡¯s pain. However, five generations will remember this day in honor of the lives taken.¡±

    Murmurs and whispers erupted around the table once more. The gavel sounded, yet none adhered to its admonition. What manner of punishment was this? Why should a murderer be allowed to walk among us? How could this be equal to his crime? Who may tell what five generations will bring?

    The father nodded once to the man. ¡°I accept,¡± he said, but his voice was lost to the din. ¡°I ACCEPT!¡± His harsh, watery shout reverberated through the room. A hush fell, as all turned back to the grim stranger.

    ¡°Very well,¡± the stranger backed from the table, motioning the woman forward. ¡°Elfie.¡±

    The woman strode behind the seated men. The two, blocking access to the bound man, slid apart, taking their chairs with them. Her next moves happened so fast, no one was sure what they saw. The thick ropes lashing him to the table snapped and fell away. Before the binds touched the floor, the man was hoisted up and away from the table. The ties keeping his hands connected to his ankles was cut, and the women held him on weakened legs in front of the visitor.

    Startled cries pierced the room. The realization¡ªa woman in human form performed these tasks¡ªswept as fire through dry brush among them.

    ¡°ARE YOU,¡± the man¡¯s raised voice extinguished their fervor, ¡°ready?¡± He continued in a solemn tone. Attention solely on the condemned.

    ¡°Wh-What will you d-do to me?¡± The bound man found the courage to sputter.

    While on the table, he considered how to escape. He imagined the moment they cut the ties from between his feet and wrists. If he changed then, he might escape with his life. But for the woman, he might¡¯ve followed through. She whispered in his mind without speaking. The woman showed him the only way his plan would end¡ªthe terrible, bloody way she would end it. He conceded a final defeat.

    The outsider faced him without a shred of emotion. Without pity or anger, compassion or hate. Now, he was only about a mission, his face a formless mask of plaster instead of skin and bone. And he answered as such.

    ¡°A mercy. A curse. A display of supranatural power beyond your current ability to understand. But you will soon.¡±

    The man reached forward and unbuttoned the other¡¯s shirt. He performed the act with delicacy, intimacy, and unbridled intimidation. He pressed a warm hand to other¡¯s breast, and a slow, foreign recitation began to fall from his lips. Pale, milky light shone between his fingers, and a howl burst from the bound man.

    At the table, a pained, shocked gasp pulled attention to the condemned¡¯s father. The father clutched his forearm. His chair clattered to the floor as he scrambled away, pawing back his shirt sleeve on the offending limb.

    Across the room, the incantation finished, and the stranger pulled his hand from the condemned¡¯s chest. A heartbeat later, the woman sliced his remaining bonds with a single digit. They fell to the floor, and exhausted, the man followed them. The father¡¯s colleagues escorted the elder man back to the table. His face was purplish red, dripping sweat, and his breath came sharp and jagged as crushed stone.

    The Council Marshal poured a mug from the sacred cistern and rushed to his friend¡¯s side. As he guided the mug into the other¡¯s hands, he glimpsed the markings. Stark, plain symbols minted his friend¡¯s arm where only flesh rose before.

    The man¡¯s father sipped and finally gulped down the draft. Seconds later, agonized cries broke from his throat. The aftershock rattled the others as well. He pulled at his arm, at the markings as if to strip them from his skin. The markings darkened, morphed from shades of skin to wine, to black, and finally, as if an invisible knife were drawn across them, they split apart. At their final division, the man¡¯s cries faded, as if he¡¯d already forgotten their pain. Relief, dread, confusion clouded his features.

    ¡°Fascinating,¡± the stranger¡¯s voice broke the silence, his form bent across the table, ¡°and disturbing. What did you give him?¡±

    ¡°You have yet to earn that.¡± The Council Marshal returned harshly. ¡°That is all you need to know.¡±

    The two men exchanged a violent look heavy with the unknown. Seconds, hours ticked away.

    ¡°Very well,¡± the stranger conceded. ¡°This town¡¯s secrets and keeping them safe are the reason we¡¯re here. However,¡± to the gathered his eyes seemed to glow in their sockets at the intensity of his words, ¡°if we are to continue, I must insist on two stipulations.¡±

 1 - KIAN

    No one expects their parents to change the world. Maybe as a little kid, you think they can do anything. The feeling passes. They fail. You see through Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Eventually, your parents become as human as anyone else. Doesn¡¯t make them shitty parents or bad people. Most of us go through exactly the same thing ourselves. But what happens if your parents inadvertently change the course of life on Earth? They don¡¯t mean to; they just do. Accidents happen every day, but ¡®whoops¡¯ doesn¡¯t mean there isn¡¯t a cost. In this case, what if your parents¡¯ mistake leaves them the same: frail and normal, but you become something else entirely because of what they didn¡¯t mean to do? What then?

    When I was 13, my dad discovered the first of the Irin. Not a soul on Earth knew what to consider the being. The thing looked, for the most part, like a man. He, definitely male, actually looked like a freaking, honest-to-God angel, but no one wanted to go there. For almost a decade, the Irin was an oddity, a lifeform without a name. Years passed before a select few even had a hint what to call it, much less what all the rest meant.

    Originally, The National Museum of Natural History named him the Ibitoupa Man after an early 18th-century, Native American tribe who were more a memory than anything else. The Ibitoupa lived somewhere along the Yazoo River near the remote site of Dad¡¯s find. So, despite any actual evidence¡ªhow could you prove the identity of a naked dude with no artifacts nearby?¡ªthe anthropologists and historians titled him something closest to their guess.

    If the whole damn circus stopped at headlines about archaeological discovery of the century and (not so) amazing trips to the Smithsonian, our lives, my life particularly, could have gone on with this one remarkable footnote. But that outcome was never in the casino much less the cards. Instead, the Irin changed everything we¡ªthe royal we¡ªknew about life. Tens-of-thousands of years of evolution upended in relatively few years by the unhappy accident of a pulpwood farmer from Mississippi.

    Most of what we believed then was a myth anyway. So much lay underneath the surface that¡ªokay, a lot of people went to a lot of trouble to hide¡ªwe refused to see.

    Now, everyone referred to Dad¡¯s discovery as The Loosing. Rolled off the tongue. Easy to remember. Like anyone will forget. People might have named the Irin¡¯s discovery after some unpronounceable, Icelandic volcano, and everyone would still spit it out with the same disgust as sour milk.

    Some hated The Loosing and ¡®supras,¡¯ those of us changed by the event, out of envy. Others saw Lucifer making his last stand or the apocalyptical horsemen coming to judge us all when they considered our abilities. A few despised supras simply because someone else told them they should. Whether jealousy or faith or follow-the-leader, fear drove them.

    But many years and a lot of pain passed to get to any of that and even more years and pain before we realized that fighting about the Irin didn¡¯t mean a damn thing. The first thing to understand was The Loosing itself and how wickedly subtle it came about.

    ¡Þ ¡Þ ¡Þ

    Age 13 ¡ª Summer 2013

    The Loosing occurred near Belzoni, Mississippi.

    Two hours south of our home overlooking Quail Lake, the Delta widened into a menagerie of dense evergreens and tropical plants. The cotton and sugarcane fields yielded to swamp and forest. The place felt ancient and resistant to intrusion. Turned out for good reasons.

    Dad took the small-scale clearing and reforesting of fifty-six acres because his cousin, who owned the patch of marsh, didn¡¯t trust any bigger companies to do right by the land. No one wanted another patch of the Delta¡¯s natural beauty disturbed any more than necessary. At least, Dad¡¯s preservationist leanings won him fewer protests from conservation groups. Unfortunately, the best of humanity¡¯s scientists wouldn¡¯t know how much care was actually required. If they had, we might¡¯ve buried the entire patch of forest under a nuclear winter.

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    No matter how much Dad¡¯s crew cleared, the indomitable forest pushed back. The pine and cypress kept their imposing, sentinel-like stand full of blockades and slowdowns. I imagined the place full of tree forts, places for Merry Men or Lost Boys.

    When visiting, I ran to the tree line at least once a day and shouted, ¡°Hello in there! Are you ready to play?¡±.

    Though far too jammed together for an echo, if I listened closely enough, I swore someone called faint answers back. Kid stuff. An amusement to my parents. Until the bottom fell out of Pandora¡¯s Box.

    The day of The Loosing, Mom and I were onsite. We milled about in the air-conditioned chill of Dad¡¯s single-wide foreman trailer. Dad left at dawn to recheck the final, marked trees for the job. He wanted to ensure not even one break of the state¡¯s land boundaries. The base radio crackled now-and-then with updates from across the site. Mom had just set a pitcher of sun tea on the front deck when Dad¡¯s voice crackled from the speakers.

    ¡°¡­southeast corner. Double time¡­ Harvey.¡±

    ¡°Dennis? What we got? You¡¯re breaking up.¡±

    ¡°No¡­ ¡­ure. Damndest thing¡­ all my years.¡±

    Excitement, shaded with something I¡¯d never quite heard before, tinted Dad¡¯s voice. A staticky pause filled the space.

    ¡°Gotcha,¡± Harvey responded. ¡°On my way. Out.¡±

    ¡°Harvey,¡± Dad shot back, ¡°bring ¡­lla and Ki...¡±

    Another heavy silence followed. None of the guys ever pulled their families beyond the trailers onto the active site. An active logging site was a potential death trap for anyone who didn¡¯t know exactly where to be and when. No one wished that on their conscience or as Dad liked to joke, their insurance claim.

    ¡°Roger. Headed to your trailer, now.¡±

    Mom stared at the radio for long seconds before turning to me and said through her amused smile, ¡°Go get your shoes on, Honey.¡±

    ¡Þ ¡Þ ¡Þ

    Beyond the trailer¡¯s walls, August¡¯s liquid air created rivers of sweat the moment I stepped outside. Amongst the trees, the mercury dropped at least twenty degrees, but pelican-size mosquitos found us within seconds. Even covered with industrial repellent, they just sent weaker ones in to lick it off first.

    Harvey drove us down the crew¡¯s makeshift access road to Dad¡¯s location. Mom and I walked behind Harvey. We found Dad squatting beside a massive sinkhole. He never looked up as we join. Whatever lay beyond the pit¡¯s edge transfixed him.

    ¡°Never thought I¡¯d see something like that,¡± he said with a general motion at the hole.

    A surprised whistle issued from Harvey.

    All I saw were felled trees and a pit big enough to swallow a house. More than impressive to an eighth grader. The scene was spooky enough to have my full attention, and I let Dad pull me to his side. He handed me a pair of binoculars and directed my attention to something deep within in the hole¡¯s dark center.

    My heart raced, and my brain scrambled to catch up with my eyes.

    ¡°Is that a mummy?¡± I managed; binoculars pressed tightly to my face.

    Mummy wasn¡¯t the right word. But it¡¯s all I had. People wrapped mummies in bandages. They stuffed them in pyramids. More importantly, you knew they were dead.

    In the dark of that hole stood a translucent rectangle. An impossible amber light radiated faintly from its surface. Encased within, a lean, scowling man, not much younger than Dad, remained absolutely preserved. Absolutely. Like balls and all.

    I treaded closer to the edge, leaning in with the binoculars. A sharp cry from Mom reeled me around. The binos tumbled with me as a section of loose topsoil broke from the edge of the crater and plummeted me into the void. No life altering moments flashed in front of my eyes. Only roots and black earth.

    I pitched, tumbled, rolled, and finally landed in a lump at the base of the unearthly tomb. Its eerie brownish-gold glow brightened in the gloom.

    ¡°Kian, don¡¯t move! I¡¯m coming down,¡± Dad¡¯s warbled shout came from miles away, though I heard the dirt shuffling as he made his way carefully down the sinkhole¡¯s side.

    Rising on wobbly feet, my eyes took in the massive figure in front of me.

    Up close, I saw the block encasing the figure extended into the soil, and from his back, wings folded like a bird¡¯s in mid-stroke.

    He didn¡¯t move so much as an eyelash, but an intensity of emotion pulsed from him. I felt his unrest worming through the soil. Why I felt no fear I¡¯ve wondered for years. Instead of backing away, instead of cowering, my hand floated from my side and pressed to the rectangle.

    Earthen warmth met my fingers. I stared up into the ancient eyes, still open and whole. As I scanned his face, the faint voice from the forest said two words. Almost an echo, but distinct enough to send me fleeing into my father¡¯s arms.

    ¡°I¡¯m ready.¡±

 2 - KIAN

    October 2022¡ªQuail Lake, Mississippi

    The rotten-egg stench of Ibitoupa Man¡¯s discovery trails our family a little less these days. All the conspiracy theorists and regular media needed was a global pandemic and ¡®Voila¡¯. The apparent cause of supranatural power isn¡¯t some redneck from Mississippi hill country but a mutated cold virus. To be clear, neither SARS-CoV-2 nor I cause supranatural power to manifest.

    Supras, specifically ¡®origos¡¯, are as old as recorded history. They apparently hide very well, and normal people slowly churn them from rumor and myth into horror movie and comic book butter. No one knows, or no one who does is bothering to tell, where the origos¡¯ power originates. Supras, us noobs to the actual world of beyond belief, are another story.

    Governments around the world are certain at this point that Ibitoupa Man is the source of our power. They are almost certain of how he passed them on, too. Good luck hearing them admit it aloud. Those of us with powers know absolutely; we¡¯ve had the bastard clogging up our dreams for years with his trauma-inducing visions of the future. But considering we¡¯re a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of any given population, silencing us isn¡¯t so overt or hard to accomplish.

    The origos are no help. Not en masse. The known ones hold treaties and contracts with their respective countries which grant them a lot of privacy in exchange for well, whatever it is their governments get back. In the U.S., I work out that it¡¯s service with the Department of Supra Ethics, commonly DOSE. An organization almost as old as the U.S. itself that until roughly four years ago hardly anyone knew existed.

    At this point, I¡¯m intimately familiar with the six agents who serve as a security detail for my family. We may not get as much attention as when supranatural powers first began coming to light, but I¡¯m still ¡®patient zero¡¯ or DOSE¡¯s novel little codename: Firstborn.

    Now, four years out of high school and nine years gone from being touched by an unearthly angel, it¡¯s still not hard to remember the earliest days. Even I think¡­thought, for a while, I might¡¯ve imagined what happened when I touched his enclosure. Those fragile hope crystals lasted until the Smithsonian exhibition began two years after Dad¡¯s discovery.

    ¡Þ ¡Þ ¡Þ

    With powers not manifesting worldwide and no reason to suspect Ibitoupa Man as anything more than an unexplainable gem, The National Museum of Natural History puts the freak on display. I¡¯m fifteen when this happens, and they fly our family all up to the exhibition opening. There are no agents or government-level security clearances then. Not to my knowledge. Only more photo-ops and news stories, all glowing like newly minted coins.

    By then, the dreams come in fits and starts. Visions of whatever he is creep into my subconscious, whispering all sorts of grand plans. I believe him but tell no one, yet. Who else would believe it anyway? The mummy guy from the Smithsonian exhibit visits in my sleep.

    Good way to get a clozapine prescription, but not so good for doing anything about the problem. I should know. I had to flush those little, white head screws for a year before something close to the truth came out.

    The staff guide us into the museum¡¯s grand rotunda before opening. I barely take in the space. For all the blue-black marble and multi-hued limestone soaring and streaking through the space, my attention fixes solely on the eight-foot tall, winged man¡ªor what disguises itself as a man¡ªencased in an unblemished, translucent, amber substance. They raise him on a dais, a mythical god in the midst of us mortals. I contain the urge to flee, as I¡¯m the only one to understand. A god, or something worse, is exactly what he is.

    Dad whistles through his teeth and stares up. ¡°Wow! That¡¯s impressive!¡±

    My child, it¡¯s good to see you again. Its voice speaks warmly inside my mind, and my feet cement to the marble.

    The curator brushes past, beaming. ¡°He remains such a mystery to us. And not just him but his encasement as well. Some things we just aren¡¯t at a point to understand.¡±

    Do not be afraid. I will make things clear to you.

    ¡°Everyone stand over here,¡± the photographer guides us into position. I somehow will my feet from their concrete state to shuffle in front of the display. I fear having to turn my back on this thing. Afraid he might fly loose and snatch me away.

    You will soon understand why I¡¯m here, why all of you are here.

    ¡°Kian? Buddy, ya feeling all right?¡± Dad clasps my shoulder.

    I blink back at him and try to shake the unheard conversation loose. ¡°Fine, Dad. Can we just go already?¡±

    D.C. confuses me. The whispers penetrate without need of dreams, probably from being right in front of Ibitoupa Man. Its words are ridiculously frightening at first, but the longer I stand in the rotunda, the more his words soothe. Which, once I¡¯m farther away again, frightens me even more.

    The trip ends. We come home. The public attention fades, but hell breaks loose underneath the surface. Now after seven more years, those fires breech the surface, and no matter what gets said behind closed doors: no one has a clue how to stop them from spreading.

    ¡Þ ¡Þ ¡Þ

    Our family stays where we always have. Well, Mom and Dad do, albeit with a few extra precautions.

    The newish house sits on a remote inlet of Quail Lake¡¯s southeastern edge. The closest neighbors are ten acres and a twelve-foot tall, chain link fence away in any direction. The whole property comes complete with a full, government-issued surveillance suite, too. DOSE agents included.

    Every year, the government¡¯s threat assessment concludes the same thing. We¡¯re as safe in Quail Lake as we would be anywhere else. So, we get to stay. ¡®Course, the feds would need an entire special forces team to drag my parents away from the place they grew up.

    I can¡¯t say the same about me, and I can¡¯t say I believe DOSE completely either.

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    For starters, I¡¯m a senior at the University of Freemont and live on campus most of the time. Freshman and sophomore years, we went the cautious route. I was slyly escorted to and from the school every single day. There¡¯s no need, now. No boogeymen jumping out of empty classrooms or secretly enrolling as students. Even still¡­

    I live in a different world from my parents. Yeah, we¡¯d do anything to protect each other after everything we¡¯ve learned. We lean on each and take comfort in the small things. But all the normal dramas and celebrations of life act as white noise, welcome distractions from the truth.

    Despite all their hoping for a safer outcome, I¡¯m not like them anymore. Not since I fell in that hole with whatever that thing is. The discovery makes things very complicated for me, makes me a different me. Literally a different me if I want it to. Ordinarily, I¡¯m a shade under six feet tall and weigh about two twenty-five. I¡¯ve got Dad¡¯s ginger hair, mom¡¯s blue eyes.

    So many times lately, I do want to be someone else. So, I slip on the mask¡ªanother two inches of height but about twenty pounds of weight loss and turn my hair black. I keep my blue eyes but add starbursts of orange. For more and more hours every week (most of the time that I¡¯m not in class), that¡¯s who I get to be. I¡¯ve had a few close calls over the years, but somehow my secret is still between my parents, me, one close friend¡­and an entire department of the U.S. government.

    The team assigned to us primarily stays in a doublewide trailer just outside the main gates onto our property when they¡¯re on duty. We see them when we come-and-go. We might recognize them tailing us when we¡¯re in town. Usually, they try to stay as unintrusive as possible. Two of them rotate shifts during the week to look over my shoulder at the university, but that¡¯s when their the least conspicuous.

    Their natural standoffishness is why I¡¯m a bit surprised to have been spending the night at home and come strolling downstairs in nothing but sweatpants to find two of them standing around the kitchen island with Mom and Dad.

    ¡°Mornin¡¯, son.¡± Dad waves me over before I can flee back upstairs.

    All heads swing my direction, while I¡¯m blinking sleep out of my eyes and wishing I¡¯d put on a shirt. ¡°Uh¡­Can it wait a couple minutes?¡±

    I scan their faces and decide it can¡¯t.

    ¡°Who died?¡± I try lightening the mood while snatching a water from the fridge.

    No one laughs. Mom purses her lips tight. A slight shake of her head tells me to stow it.

    ¡°Okay,¡± I stretch the word out. ¡°Not a mind reader, guys.¡± Technically, I am, but they don¡¯t know that part of my power. I¡¯m paranoid about using it on them if they¡¯re three feet away. Maybe they¡¯d be able to tell. I choose instead to awkwardly stuff myself in beside Mom at the island.

    ¡°Ibitoupa¡¯s structure has begun showing cracks.¡± Agent Paxley says through her teeth. ¡°Several dozen hairline fractures radiating out from different points on the body.¡± Agent Paxley, she¡¯s normally one of the more lighthearted members of our begrudged, extended family. If she¡¯s chewing off her own enamel, the shit¡¯s hitting the fan.

    I laugh but more to keep from choking. This news is a bucket of ice water in the face. They aren¡¯t joking. I¡¯m definitely awake. I can tell from the fingernails cutting into my palm.

    ¡°The dreams have gotten worse recently¡­¡± I trail off, realizing that I¡¯m thinking out loud. Mom places a hand on my clenched fist.

    ¡°We don¡¯t know that the dreams aren¡¯t related to trauma.¡± Agent Vander, one of those completely by-the-book types, says like he¡¯s reading from a cue card.

    ¡°Bullshit!¡± Dad¡¯s outburst startles everyone. He¡¯s usually the first to latch onto these more realistic explanations. PTSD invading your kid¡¯s mind is much easier to believe than it being the sentient work of a thousands-of-years-old former museum exhibit. And, I probably, definitely have a fair amount of actual PTSD to contend with upstairs, but that¡¯s far from the main issue. It can¡¯t be Dad¡¯s crutch right now either.

    He¡¯s spent more time lately deep diving into the #pwp, pweeps or people with powers, online postings. If they aren¡¯t frauds, they share my dreams about Ibitoupa. Thing is he doesn¡¯t know that I know he¡¯s been coming around to my point-of-view. Now, his outburst requires explaining, but that¡¯s his cross to bear. The longer this silence stretches out, the more awkward I feel, because unlike everyone else here, I¡¯m faking confusion.

    Okay enough. I decide.

    I pivot with my water before Mom can hook my arm. They try calling me back, but I¡¯ve got one answer for them. ¡°Talk amongst yourselves. As long as you don¡¯t try to stuff me with antipsychotics again or force me to quit school, I¡¯m fine.¡± And with that I round the bend of our stairs and escape out of sight.

    ¡Þ ¡Þ ¡Þ

    I need something to take the edge off after news like that. Because I¡¯m legal most might think a good cocktail is just the answer. And they might be right, if I weren¡¯t some sort of telepath with a penchant for changing my appearance. Not that I never drink, but I must be extremely careful when I do, and the process of ensuring I don¡¯t absent-mindedly use my powers while intoxicated is more hassle than help.

    Plus, I give a lot of consideration to DOSE. As much as they aggravate me, they have the answers, or at least many more of them than they¡¯re sharing, that I want. I can¡¯t go making an ass of myself and expect a secretive government agency to bring me on the payroll. But I know they¡¯re interested.

    None of the big dogs have come right out and said it yet. No one slips me recruiting pamphlets on the sly. I don¡¯t even know what those would be like for DOSE. Maybe something kitschy with ¡°The Truth Is Out There¡± embossed across the top. No, the way I find out is Paxley let it slip once. She regrets the mistake and won¡¯t talk about it anymore. The thing she doesn¡¯t expect: I¡¯d probably say yes.

    Of course, there¡¯s a difference between being an agent and a free-range lab experiment. Which brings me back to my ever-present predicament of the cabal downstairs getting primary voting rights over my fate versus me.

    Lucky me, I can tune into exactly what they¡¯re thinking.

    Tapping into someone¡¯s thoughts is a bit like tuning a radio. At least it goes like this when I¡¯m not staring at them. I need to picture the individual and sort of float towards them. Doesn¡¯t work if they¡¯re not pretty close. Now, if they¡¯re in my line of sight, listening to them feels like walking in on a conversation. A couple of times mom, dad, or one of the agents almost walk in on me when I¡¯ve been eavesdropping from around a corner. Rather, they do but don¡¯t realize it. Apparently, I go spacey when I focus too deeply on out-of-sight targets. I always manage to play it off.

    Paxley is the easiest to find, and my mind drifts downward. Rather than hearing static, I pick up a garbled track of voices. I focus until I tune into Paxley¡¯s wavelength, aura, whatever it is. A group exchange can be difficult. The back-and-forth of conversation and proximity of people makes filtering actual thoughts akin to sieving smaller rocks through bigger ones.

    I manage to find a good frequency and hover.

    ¡°¡­new assets will be in place soon. No need to worry about Micah¡¯s safety.¡± Paxley says. What is she thinking?

    ¡­Martins worry me. They¡¯ve been away from Freemont a long time. Council members pretty much in name only. And we¡¯re getting stuck with the fresh¡ª

    A loud, frustrated reply from Dad muddies the thought. Reorienting to Paxley takes a second.

    ¡­really wish we did know what the dreams mean. Obviously, something. Right now, we just don¡¯t know. Psychologically troubling, yeah. Something we¡¯re keeping both eyes on, every day. But I can¡¯t see it as an actual threat.

    Surprisingly, the thoughts mirror her words. Rare. For anyone.

    A shrill notification alerts me that someone¡¯s on the way upstairs. Turnabout being fair play and all, I installed an app-controlled, digital tripwire a couple years ago. (Growing up with agents does have some advantages.) I pull myself back from Paxley and silence my phone. I allow Mom into my room a few seconds later to check up on me.

    Once she¡¯s sure I¡¯m okay and assures me that no one will be trying to yank me from UF or shove medication down my throat, she heads back down. I¡¯d tune back in, but I clock Vander and Paxley driving back for the gates.

    The little bit I picked up gives me enough to chew anyway. Crap all on the dreams. No surprise there. New agents on the way, who Paxley doesn¡¯t like. Might be interesting. But what has me curious is: what does any of that have to do with Freemont? If there¡¯s some secret lead on my personal plague, I want those answers myself.

 3 - MICAH

    October 2022¡ªFreemont, Mississippi

    MY WORLD ENDS for a second time with three words: ¡°Your brother¡¯s dead.¡±

    Dad isn¡¯t trying to be cruel. He isn¡¯t seeing me or the ER surgeon or the now crushingly bright fluorescents when he delivers the news. He¡¯s lost deep inside himself trying to find something gone forever.

    I notice everything. Everything Graham will never see again. And I¡¯m furious.

    I¡¯m screaming, crying, punching the flimsy waiting room table so hard that I split a knuckle. Dad grabs me and pulls me into the tightest hug he¡¯s ever given. For the first time, I see my dad cry. I try to pull away. He keeps holding on, and we cry together, until the memories go fuzzy underneath the tears.

    They, the memories, are living things to me, at least concerning that period of time. They possess the quality of ghosts. Here and gone, springing out at the least opportune moments to seize me by the throat and drag my entire sense of self into their cramped, gray world of pain. I¡¯m more adept at avoiding them now, but today, they¡¯re unavoidable.

    The inch-long scar across the knuckles of my right hand shows up a couple shades lighter on my tan, especially when I make a fist. Like now.

    I¡¯m starring down at the polished black of Graham¡¯s headstone, failing to figure out how to mark a year without him. Most times out here, I share what¡¯s new with the family. Today feels inadequate for a gossip rundown. Some of what I¡¯d like to say, he wouldn¡¯t want to hear. Mostly the stuff about Dad.

    He¡¯s gotten more paranoid. His rages against the Ansley family worsen more than ever, since he still blames them for Graham¡¯s death. He works constantly, leaving Gran and me to fend for each other. It¡¯s harder for me to do now¡ªhelp Gran, since I¡¯m at college. Dad¡¯s never been harsh or mean, and he¡¯s not now. At least, not to us. He¡¯s just colder, distant, like he never figured out a way back from the frozen place he went when Graham died.

    After my birthday last December, I understand why he blames the Ansleys, though I think he¡¯s wrong.

    When I turned eighteen¡ªnot quite two months after Graham¡¯s death, he and Gran began explaining our family history. They told me a wild, incomprehensible, story about poisons and curses and powers dating back over a hundred years. Like any sane person, I thought they were full of shit. I was angry. I said a lot of things I shouldn¡¯t have said. They took my abuse without a word. Then, they showed me the video of mom.

    After that, I believe. I believe the stories about powers and a world I don¡¯t understand. I believe that maybe there are new powers coming into the world. But I don¡¯t believe that the Ansley family had anything to do with Graham¡¯s death.

    Dad and Gran told me there was more to know, to learn, but I¡¯d heard enough. At that point, Dad¡¯s pleas seemed to be as much about convincing himself as educating me. I told them that I¡¯d let them know when I was ready to know more.

    They still accept my decision. But they want something from me. Something¡­important. I don¡¯t know why, but it feels wrong. I know it¡¯s bad to think something like that about family who¡¯ve only ever taken care of me. Doesn¡¯t make it less true though. They won¡¯t say what they want, but I feel like it has to do with Graham¡¯s death, Dad¡¯s obsession with the Ansleys. I just want to move on with my life.

    The police ruled my brother¡¯s death in the woods accidental. All the evidence glaringly says so, too. Dad refuses to hear it. He still points the finger at the Ansleys. But since the ancient recluse of an Ansley who lived up there passed away not long after Graham, now, he¡¯s targeting the Ansley¡¯s who came from Texas, who weren¡¯t even a part of any of this. Hell, they weren¡¯t even in the state until a couple of months ago. But that¡¯s my dad these days.

    Not all his days are bad ones. Small pieces of his old self shine through for Mud Devils¡¯ football and when he¡¯s with some of his old buddies. He really shined at my graduation, and he couldn¡¯t be happier for my academic scholarships. But¡­all those moments are pretty short lived.

    Earlier this year, I worked up the courage to come out to him. I told him I didn¡¯t want to have any secrets if the worst happened to me, too. Dad listened attentively the whole time. We talked about how I felt and why. He gave me one of the first real hugs from him in a long time and told me he loved me no matter what. But he went back to watching a bowl game almost immediately and hasn¡¯t mentioned it since.

    I should be happy things are so simple with Dad on the subject. Some of the other folks at Pride Alliance tell horror stories, or they expect one. Dad¡¯s blah attitude still bothers me though.

    Is it too much to ask if I¡¯m dating someone? Not yet. Or even embarrassing stuff like if I¡¯m being safe? Yes¡­the one chance I had to try. Not that I¡¯d like to talk dating or my hypothetical sex life with Dad. At least it¡¯d be something though. Graham got bugged about his girlfriend all the time.

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    ¡°Sorry, bro.¡± I strangle my jealousy. ¡°Class starts in an hour. Gotta get going.¡±

    I press my fist to the oval holding Graham¡¯s picture on his headstone. We share Mom¡¯s looks. The same rowdy, blond curls, blue eyes, and thin noses. She¡¯s gone, too, but it¡¯s been long enough that it doesn¡¯t hurt as bad anymore. Well, hurts pretty bad in moments like this, but I¡¯m now proud of what I always denied before Graham died¡ªthat we all look alike. Feels like I¡¯m able to carry something of them no one else can with me.

    The tears run into the corners of my mouth without me realizing they¡¯ve come. I shake my head and stand but don¡¯t say goodbye, only, ¡°¡®Til next time.¡±

    ¡Þ ¡Þ ¡Þ

    I¡¯m still feeling some kind of way when I roll into the food court right after my public speaking class to track down Sam and Kylie¡ªtwo of my best friends from high school who also decided to attend UF¡ªat one of the outdoor tables. They¡¯re lost to something on Kylie¡¯s cell.

    ¡°You know most of this is all just filters and special effects,¡± Sam dismisses whatever it is as I sit my tray down.

    Kylie gives a disgruntled huff and shifts on her seat to face me. ¡°What you think about these pwps?¡± In my opinion the viral craze has hung on a little too long, but some of them are probably valid, even though you can¡¯t find much more than a passing fascination with dangerous stunts about superpowers on any real news.

    ¡°Some of them might be real. But most are pretty imaginative,¡± I shrug, knowing this isn¡¯t what she wants to hear, but I don¡¯t want to be outright rude.

    Kylie¡¯s face scrunches in on itself again. ¡°C¡¯mon. See you think it¡¯s a little possible? So just watch. You can¡¯t fake this.¡±

    Before I can answer, Sam throws up his hands and launches into another denouncement. ¡°MCU, DCU, all the¡­manga in Micah¡¯s bedroom.¡± I shoot him a look. ¡°Sorry, have you redecorated since high school?¡± He crows without a pause.

    ¡°My dorm doesn¡¯t have¡ª¡± I start, but he cuts me off.

    ¡°Anyway,¡± he draws out the word, ¡°those have superheroes and villains and powers. Not¡ª Where was that again? Bumblefuck, Illinois.¡±

    Undeterred, Kylie spins her phone and starts a video for me. I humor her and watch. On screen a chick with neon hair superimposes herself over a video of a guy roughly our age. He¡¯s wearing some sort of Mardi Gras mask and standing beside a rust-eaten fifty-five-gallon drum with an anvil on top.

    He doesn¡¯t say a word. The girl narrates something to effect of: ¡°OMG, keep watching.¡± His eyes close. His right hand extends slowly, and with it the anvil rises from the top of the barrel. ¡°Not yet, not yet,¡± our hyperventilating narrator screeches. Someone swoops in from offscreen and smashes a fair-sized stick against the anvil. The stick snaps into. The anvil wobbles but stays aloft. ¡°Ahhhhh!¡± As if finished or fatigued, the potential pweep¡¯s eyes pop open, and he sags. The anvil crashes into and through the barrel¡¯s top. The girl goes wild, and a slo-mo replay starts.

    I pause the video. ¡°Ever hear of Shin Lim.¡± I could be kinder, but I¡¯m not just not feeling it today.

    Kylie growls and snatches the phone back. ¡°None of this looks like that.¡±

    The videos keep circulating, more and more all the time. People with seeming superpowers doing all sorts of crazy stunts. Major news hasn¡¯t been able to ignore it, but they don¡¯t give it much credence either. Everyone pretty much falls into three camps: die-hard believers, eye rollers, and the smallest, those who know enough to know it¡¯s possible but not probable. Given what I¡¯ve learned over the past year, I fall into the last and smallest category but for a different reason than most, so I try to waffle between eye-roller and how I really feel.

    A nasty, crackling roll of thunder and the pitter-patter of rain ends our debate.

    Within an hour, the turd floater, as Gran calls this type of storm, unleashes everything short of a tornado warning. A sea of clouds parks over Freemont and keeps up a steady light and water show. Just as well, I¡¯ve got papers to write, and this is the perfect weather for no distractions.

    Sam texts. [Get n some COD???] Almost no distractions.

    [Micah: Later? Need to finish a short story for a class]

    The short story only needs a final edit, which might take me thirty minutes max. But Sam¡¯s not a book guy or a sit around the coffee shop guy. If I tell him that I¡¯m planning on going down to Beans & Books, he¡¯ll refuse to leave me alone until we¡¯re slaughtering Nazi zombies. My edits are due tomorrow, so that¡¯s a no-go.

    [Sam: w/e just let me know when u want to jump on. Maybe after practice]

    I reply with a thumbs up and head for the other side of campus as soon as class lets out.

    Terri, Beans & Books¡¯ owner, greets me as I settle on one of the oversized chairs by the gabled front windows. ¡°Still want a large white cocoa latte?¡±

    I give her an enthusiastic grin in acceptance of ¡®my usual.¡¯

    Except for someone in a Freemont Mud Devil¡¯s hoodie huddled behind their laptop on the other side of the store, I¡¯m the shop¡¯s only customer. Perfect time to get some work done.

    I intend to do the short story edits, and I sorta do. About halfway through, my concentration keeps slipping. My brain keeps conjuring images of Graham¡¯s life at this point. Starting his third year at UF, whether Dad would still be pestering him to take over the construction company, if he¡¯d still be dating Araceli.

    After fifteen minutes of failing to get on track, finishing the edits seems impossible. Not going to happen without clearing the feels out of my way first. I take my mug back to counter and order another. I let Terri know that I¡¯ll be on the Books¡¯ side before drifting off to the stacks. She gives me a reassuring nod. The grinder spins up, and already, I feel a little less anxious.

    A couple of weeks passed since I last browsed the shelves. Terri stocks new releases and buys a very select variety of used books. In less than a minute, I¡¯m sure nothing in the new section will catch my eye, and I¡¯m off to the ¡®New Imports¡¯ section of used.

    Terri calls out that my drink is ready, and I let her know that I¡¯ll be right up. I¡¯m about to step off when the cover of a manga catches my eye. So what, Sam? If this is the one I hope it is¡ª Jackpot! I pluck the manga and bury my face in it, as I weave my way back to the other side of the store.

    A bell jingles somewhere in the store. Terri greets someone with her usual enthusiasm. Muscle memory guides me between the couches dividing the store sections towards the bar. The story in this one is even better than I¡ª

    ¡°Whoa!¡± Firm hands brace my shoulders. I snatch my eyes out of the pages and up into the face of a green-eyed, raven-haired god.

 4 - WES

    EVEN IF IT IS THE FRIENDLIEST AREA of the state, trading Austin, Texas for Freemont, Mississippi stings quite a bit. I do my best not to show it in front of Mom and Dad. With everything going on right now: Uncle Grey dying, taking up our family duty for the sacred springs, all the whispers about pwps, changing my letter of intent. They really didn¡¯t have a choice in moving us here. Doesn¡¯t make the changes any easier.

    Kay, my twin sister, shares her opinions a bit too easily. I get it, even if I wish she¡¯d give her little digs a rest. Nobody wants their start in adult life¡ªthe one they worked, sweated, bled so hard for¡ªto be disrupted. I damn sure didn¡¯t, but I¡¯m here and keeping my complaints to myself.

    Our new city has some things in its favor. Freemont¡¯s not small. We¡¯re not in Hicksville, USA. Kay thinks we are because the house and land Uncle Grey left to Dad is tucked back in the hillside woods on the fringes of town. Still Freemont University is a Div-1 school, and I¡¯m on scholarship. Go Mud Devils! I found a couple of neat coffee houses and clubs online. My scene exists here just smaller in scale.

    My complaint is more about the mood. The mood lacks the quirkiness of Austin. But with like seven-hundred thousand fewer people and a lot less money, I shouldn¡¯t be too harsh. Dad¡¯s doing his best to liven up one little corner of the area with High Spring¡ªour new family distillery-restaurant combo. The place will be the only boutique distillery in the city and the first business available to the new Wolf Acres subdivision.

    Since Mom, Kay, and I drove in last weekend, preparing for the grand opening is now, officially a family affair. Our parents want our joint effort of prepping High Spring to be a big bonding experience among us all. It¡¯s not entirely working. Not for Kay and me. I have classes, and Kay, well, is Kay.

    When Dad receives a notification that a part for one of the big industrial grills arrives in town, Kay and I jump at the chance to get out for awhile. Not we need an excuse, our parents aren¡¯t keeping their adult children hostage. I hate seeing them disappointed. But, I¡¯m becoming obsessed with this Beans and Books place by the university and need my good coffee fix for the day. Plus, I do have practice and an evening bio lab.

    Thankfully, a storm is passing through which slows Kay down. She¡¯s a woman possessed on these back roads. At the very least, she has been for the three times I¡¯ve ridden with her so far. She takes the graveled, hairpin turns like she¡¯s driven them her whole life. Today, she¡¯s a lot more cautious. She¡¯s still blasting Nicki Minaj, and we¡¯re both belting along.

    My phone vibrates with a notification. I eyeball the waiting text, and my heart skips a beat. I type out a quick reply and slide my phone back underneath my thigh.

    Nicki going full throttle quickly changes to nothing but road noise. Kay tosses me a casual glance. I pretend not to notice and watch the endless stream of pine trees pass us. She jerks the steering wheel, which sends my stomach into my sinuses, and I imagine hurtling into the surrounding forest.

    ¡°What the hell, Kay?¡±

    ¡°Hmph, you can speak,¡± she says, a grin curling the corner of mouth.

    A twin is great, until they aren¡¯t. She wants to hear about the details of my evasive text. She¡¯s probably already guessed.

    ¡°Tali just wants to see what was up.¡± I act like the wipers cutting across the windshield are the most interesting thing in the world.

    ¡°But y¡¯all, krck.¡± Kay makes a cutting noise and draws a finger across her throat. Only she can get away with being so brazen. Tali and I are a sensitive topic. Shouldn¡¯t be. We broke off our official relationship when she moved to Fort Worth after graduation. But I really can¡¯t let her slip out of my life. She¡¯s not¡­wasn¡¯t¡­probably is mostly out of it now that I live in Freemont, which makes all of this more complicated in my head.

    ¡°We did. She¡¯s checking in to see how things are. Friends do that.¡± I hear the defensiveness in my voice and immediately regret the tone. Kay¡¯s smirk says she¡¯s making an assumption, and I hope she¡¯s not. I don¡¯t have the energy to try explaining. Instead, she cranks the radio back up and heads for Beans and Books.

    Kay drops me to start my routine, while she heads a couple blocks over to pick up the grill parts.

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    ¡°See you whenever,¡± she shouts from the window, as I¡¯m entering the shop. My car mostly stays parked at the university. I¡¯m in the athletic dorms, and Kay sort of just shows up to play chauffer when the rest of the family needs me back at the distillery. I fully outfit a room at our new house, too, but I won¡¯t make any new friends holed up five miles from town. Friends like the one waving to me across her store.

    Terri, one of the best people I¡¯ve met so far in Freemont, greets me by name as soon as I¡¯m through the door. I work a traveler out of my bag and pass it off along with an order for the house blend.

    ¡°With patronage like this, you¡¯re gonna give Micah a run for his money.¡± She jerks a thumb down the counter. A guy who looks like he could easily play a body double for Achilles shuffles in our direction, eyes glued to a book.

    ¡°A real reg¡ª Whoa!¡± I reach out as carefully as I can to catch the guy by the shoulders before he plows over me.

    His head snaps up, and he utters a startled, ¡°Shit!¡± The book hits the ground, as he tilts back.

    ¡°It¡¯s cool.¡± I stoop and recover the manga for him. ¡°The seventh Graythistle. That¡¯s a good one.¡±

    He stares at me for a second, going slightly red in the cheeks, and takes the book back. ¡°Yeah¡­been, uh¡­just found it.¡± He makes a motion toward the shelves on the other side of the store. ¡°Sorry about that.¡±

    Kay laughs, bringing my attention back to her. She hands me the refilled traveler and rings it up.

    ¡°Oh, what¡¯d you get?¡± the guy, Micah, asks a bit awkwardly.

    ¡°House iced.¡± I answer and jiggle the traveler a little.

    ¡°Great choice. Terri chooses the best roasts and makes the best coffee in the city.¡± He blushes again. ¡°Anyway, sorry again for almost knocking you down. See ya around.¡±

    I try to wave off the apology, as he maneuvers a mug of something mounded with whipped cream from the counter and retreats back across the room.

    ¡°Well, you¡¯ve met my number one customer.¡± Terri offers. ¡°Looks like you had him all tongue tied, which is a new thing for him.¡± She winks and heads toward the back to check something.

    I¡¯m stuck at the counter weighing options. I¡¯m not in Austin anymore. I shouldn¡¯t assume. But my ¡®dar is pinging bright indicators. I think it is, but my gaydar sucks. We are in the gayborhood¡ªwhat counts as one here, and this Micah guy seems like my type and like maybe he wanted to talk. But, he scampered off like, nope, never mind, or maybe, I¡¯m reading way too much into the situation. That¡¯s why I¡¯m no good at this.

    What would Tali do? The question rises unbidden, and I quash it as quickly. There¡¯s nothing productive down that road, and it¡¯s time I move the hell on. Maybe Kay¡¯s right about something for once. Sometimes a risk is worth taking. Right?

    I snag a piece of receipt paper from the bar, scribble a quick note, and wrap it around my debit card. I stow the bundle on Terri¡¯s keyboard and walk across the room before common sense tells me treating this like a Bravo movie is a bad idea.

    Micah sees me coming and tucks his lotus pose tighter into the armchair.

    I slide between the coffee table and couch, asking, ¡°Mind if I sit for a few?¡±

    He motions at the couch with a shrug. A skintight, athletic cut Mud Devils¡¯ tee hugs some seriously defined muscles, and those are muscles. That much is plain from grabbing his shoulders. His ignored laptop opens on the Canvas class screen. At least I have something to work with.

    ¡°What¡¯s your major?¡± I gesture at the computer screen.

    He settles Graythistle into his lap and actually looks at me. ¡°Photojournalism. But, I¡¯m a freshman, so it¡¯s all mostly gen-eds right now.¡±

    ¡°Oh great. Me too. Uh, I mean a freshman. Chemistry major though.¡±

    Micah¡¯s eyes go wider. He¡¯s eyes are turned down, staring at my¡­bag? ¡°You run cross for Freemont?¡± he asks.

    For whatever reason, I pull the logo side of the bag up as if to display a game show prize. ¡°Yeah. Got lucky with a scholarship.¡±

    His face lights up with emotion. ¡°Oh damn. You know my best friend then.¡±

    I cock my head needing a little more to go on.

    ¡°Sam Mathis,¡± Micah explains. ¡°He started on scholarship this year, too. We ran together in high school.¡±

    For the next few minutes, we compare notes. Micah¡¯s enthusiastic introduction and rundown gives me a window to take a better look at him. He¡¯s definitely got the legs of an XC runner. He must not be letting himself get out of practice. The rest of him, though, is built like a bull. Most cross runners are built like me: tall, wiry torsos with thick legs. Micah looks like he¡¯s spent as much time playing linebacker as pounding grass.

    We bounce from cross to manga and comics. Seems we have another similar passion. Though I¡¯m more American comics, we at least know enough about the other to keep it interesting. My phone alarm interrupts our conversation.

    I tend to let time slip away, so I recognize my reminder to head for practice.

    ¡°Hey, uh, do you have a way I can get in touch?¡± I scratch at the back of my head. ¡°Might be fun to continue the conversation.¡±

    The blush creeps back to his cheeks but his mouth smiles at the same time. ¡°Sure. You have the ClassX app?¡±

    ClassX is sort of a University of Freemont-specific social media meets student info hub. I¡¯m not sure of all the tech specs, but it only shares as much as you want it to, depending on your shared affiliations, interests, presets, yadda, yadda.

    I flip my sharing on, and seconds later, our profile cards light up as pending friends. We must accept about the same time, because they pretty much instantly go to friends as well. I¡¯m gawking but I don¡¯t realize it until I hear a slight hum from him.

    All I can think is: His last name is Janison. I already said I¡¯m from Texas. My last name is Ansley. What the hell are the chances? My nerves jangle and pop as I raise my eyes to him. His smile is dimmer as he scans my profile. I watch his head dip for just a blink, a breath. Enough to let me know that we both know.

    ¡°Not interrupting am I,¡± Terri joins in front us. ¡°Figured you¡¯d want this back. Well played by the way.¡± She hands back my debit card and hands Micah the paid receipt for his copy of Graythistle.

 5 - MICAH

    AS A FIRST STOP, I RETREAT to my dorm. My actual home sits ten minutes down the road, but I need a space completely my own after the past year. Dad understood this and never fought me on the dorms. My roommate, Jason from Biloxi, spends most of his time at his girlfriend¡¯s apartment. Older woman, sophomore. Haha. His joke, which pretty much sums up the extent of our relationship.

    Jason is away. Thank the gods. Somehow, I manage to chase away the absolute batshit craziness of the day long enough to finish my creative writing edits. Not the best, but they¡¯ll have to do. Prof ain¡¯t giving out grief points.

    Temporary distraction over with, I can¡¯t help but play today¡¯s events on repeat.

    Surprisingly, the whole of it turns out to be better than I thought. Sam checks in a couple of times to make sure I¡¯m doing okay. More than anyone, he kept me from doing anything drastic last year. And, he continues to make sure I live life instead of just float around in it. Mrs. P, mine and Graham¡¯s high school counselor, calls. She makes me snot up like a kindergartner when she does, but it¡¯s a good call. Then, there¡¯s Wes Ansley.

    Beyond Dad¡¯s ranting and raving, I never think much about their family. Never thought I would actually meet any of them. Never actually knew an Ansley my age exists. Now, I¡¯ve done this awkward flirty thing with Wes before realizing who he is. ¡®Course, I could tell as soon as he read my profile, he hadn¡¯t known me either.

    For the most part, I couldn¡¯t care less. Who our great, great whatever-the-hells are shouldn¡¯t matter anymore. Not like anyone with more brain cells than a koala lives by nineteenth century rules anyway. Yes, I¡¯m awwing over the guy, but it can¡¯t be helped. No one¡¯s ever done something real-life romantic for me before, and buying Graythistle for me is low-key, real-life romantic as hell.

    Much as I know how much it might complicate my life, I really want to message him. I resist the urge and go for the next best thing¡ªInsta stalking. He wouldn¡¯t have the link as part of his open ClassX profile if he didn¡¯t want me to see. Right?

    He¡¯s active and popular. Not influencer level or anything, but he¡¯s got a respectable following. His latest post sets off a Monarch migration in my stomach. The shot zooms in on the Beans and Books¡¯ mug, my hands wrapping around it. An unrecognizable me smiling blurs into the background. I don¡¯t know when he snapped it, but it¡¯s great. The caption is just a wide-open smiley face with a question mark.

    Well damn, tell me how you really feel.

    I scroll through his pics of campus, shots of him with the cross team. I slow down on the photos of the old Ansley place, his family¡¯s new home. Much as Dad harped about the spot, I¡¯ve never seen it before. It really is a beautiful house. Don¡¯t know why Dad wants it so bad though. A few more flicks transport me to his life in Austin. Waving goodbye at the city limit sign, packing what I assume to be his old room, a summer run along a very cool trail, his life reverses in front of me. And then I stop, the butterflies in my chest going cold.

    From early May, a perspective shot. Wes¡¯s hand extends in the foreground, clasping another. A lean, wolfish girl with dark eyes and jet black hair smiles into the lens. The caption bears a lightning bolt and reads: After all this time¡­ A hesitant check of the grid view reveals dozens more shots of @do_Tal.

    I tap her name, but do_Tal¡¯s profile is locked up like a bank vault. And, no, I would not like to follow or send a request. I go back to the shot from May and read the comments. All conciliations, sad faces, and ¡®it¡¯ll get better¡¯ messages. His months-old breakup shouldn¡¯t make me happy, but the butterflies do stretch their wings again.

    While I¡¯m busy plucking imaginary petals off their imaginary stem¡ªto text, not to text¡ªGran calls and wants me to come for dinner at the house. We haven¡¯t seen each other today, and we should. I stow Wes Ansley¡¯s info for later and tell her I¡¯m on my way.

    The heavy, earthy smell of fried catfish smacks me as soon as I open the front door, almost makes me drool. Almost. It¡¯s a scent never smelt in the house anymore¡ªGraham¡¯s favorite meal. My stomach knots as much as my mouth waters, and I¡¯m unsure whether hunger or nausea will win.

    Between finishing my edits, whatever adhoc meditation I did in the dorm, and ogling Wes, I¡¯d managed to tuck the worst memories of today out of sight. Now, they flood back with a vengeance on whiffs of hot grease and the ghost of Graham¡¯s laugh in my head.

    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    I glance down the hall as I pass through the living room. Dad¡¯s truck is in the driveway, and the door to his bedroom remains closed. Not a good sign for him to be cooped up in there when he¡¯s at home, especially right now.

    Not that Dad would forbid his mother from cooking anything or that she¡¯d listen if he tried. They just seem to have some unspoken agreement on the point. Seemed to have, I guess.

    That Gran cooked this meal, tonight, gives away her state of mind more than anything. Maybe, she¡¯s saying something to all of us in a way words never could. I¡¯m sure she visited Graham¡¯s graveside at some point today, but cooking is her general cure-all. This may be one more step of closure for her, and she wants to share with us.

    Hard for me to imagine closing anything with vivid snapshots of Graham¡¯s every birthday now on a scroll through my mind. Him stuffing down two, three platefuls of Gran¡¯s fish. Dares between us to out-eat the other. Graham crushing up leftover hushpuppies in milk the morning after a fry¡ªa habit he got from Dad¡ªlike some Depression-era farmer.

    I swallow the lump in my throat. Yeah, I¡¯m really not sure this is a good idea, but I have to give it a try. I hope Dad will.

    ¡°Smells awesome, Gran.¡± The three words and half-smile are the best I can manage, as I climb the mountainous three stairs from the living room into the dining room.

    She rounds out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of corn. ¡°Figured now was good a time as any.¡± The corn touches down gently beside the towel-covered plates of fish and hushpuppies.

    As good a time as any. Huh? Would Graham feel the same way? He never said anything about the family secret. I¡¯m too afraid to ask what he knew. If he knew, I guess I know why he didn¡¯t tell me. Did he feel the same way Dad did? Would he be as fixated on the Ansleys? Could he help me understand all of this shit better? I¡¯ll never know.

    I nod and pull out my seat. She looks at me, and yeah, she¡¯s done some crying today, too. Her mouth opens to say something just as a door closes in the back of the house.

    We turn to face the familiar sound of Dad¡¯s luggage clacking over the joints in our tile. He parks the bag halfway across to the front door and continues on to meet us.

    His eyes go stony as he steps into the dining room.

    ¡°Franklin called from Hattiesburg. Best if I head down tonight instead of the morning.¡± His voice sounds hoarse, wrung out.

    ¡°Clay¡ª¡± Gran starts. Dad cuts her off with a wave.

    ¡°I would¡¯ve already been gone, but I got delayed at the main office.¡± The words tumble out of him. ¡°I¡¯ll be back Monday. Good to see you, son.¡± He gives my hair a rustle and starts to leave, sparing another glance at the spread in front of us. ¡°Smells great, Mom. He would¡¯ve¡ª¡± Dad hiccups and whirls quickly, crosses to the bag, and leaves the house before Gran or I can respond.

    The first ten minutes of the meal pass in silence. Gran is either fuming or devastated or both. She finally breaks the spell with a story about the first time Graham tried her fish when he was four. Every muscle in my body twitches, wanting to follow Dad¡¯s trail from the room.

    I keep my seat. I won¡¯t shutout Gran like Dad. Slowly, my nibbles turn into bigger bites. She coaxes one or two of my own fondest stories of Graham out of me. Two hours later, we¡¯ve cleaned up and gone back to our own business. Somehow, the meal, the stories, morph Graham¡¯s lingering ghost into a calming spirit for at least enough time to heal a little more. I¡¯m far from all better, but Gran¡¯s version of therapy helps.

    Thursday and Friday pass in a blur. The Freemont Falcons¡¯, my old high school, football team plays at home Friday night. Meaning, some of us will be there to cheer on the most celebrated athletes at the school. No sarcasm. They actually won state two years ago and might pull it off again this year.

    I enjoy football, playing it and watching it, but cross country makes me feel more alive. I¡¯m also a lot better at cross than crashing into someone else over and over again.

    The Falcons squeak out a three-point win over DeSoto Central. I avoid a dozen invitations to Megan Sizemore¡¯s house for an afterparty. Sam plans to hit the party up before the night¡¯s over. But, he knows what I¡¯ve got going tomorrow and doesn¡¯t press me.

    Back at the dorms, my gear is already prepped. The morning just needs a wake-up shower. Then, I¡¯m off to the woods.

    Sam heads to the party afterward. Five a.m. on a Saturday will come too soon for me. I¡¯m taking my camera out at the butt-crack of dawn. In years past, I¡¯d be taking a bow. I can¡¯t anymore. Not after Graham and not after what I know about our family.

    If things were normal between Dad and me or Graham were still here, I¡¯d wait for their cue to head for the woods. But I know that cue won¡¯t be coming. Not only is Dad a couple hundred miles away; Graham will never be asking again. I need this to show myself that the woods, nature can still be my thing. Everything might be different with Graham gone, but not everything has to change. Maybe, Dad can see something different in it, too¡ªone day.

    Lying in bed trying to get to sleep, I can¡¯t help thinking about Wes Ansley. I have no idea why. We talked for like thirty minutes and nothing since. Maybe once he saw who I was, he did the same math as me and said to hell with it. I don¡¯t have any reason to be mad at him. Either of us have a whole basket of reasons not to reach out. Though I¡¯m not sure what they all might be. For as much as Dad and Gran told me, the history has a lot of holes.

    My thoughts aren¡¯t peaceful ones to sleep on, but somewhere in the middle of the churning waters of Wes Ansley I drift off.

 6 - KIAN

    A VPN, AN ONION browser, and a day¡ªokay a helluva lot longer than that¡ªbut a final push later, I scrounge up a promising find related to Freemont. Those of us with the dreams also tend to be those with powers¡ªas the claims go. I only trust so much on r/dreamfolx. Follow the right threads underground though, and a more believable world opens up. More far-fetched but more believable.

    Anyone whose nightmares truly bleed into their reality like mine have a certain paranoia surrounding them. Turns out, some of them have DOSE in their lives as well. I¡¯m happy not to be unique in that way. Naturally, no one comes out and says they have a secret band of government agents camped on their doorstep, not on any general access social media. The dark web is another story.

    As Hued_Shadow on Jorum¡¯s Table, I find my people. I¡¯m not a power user, but I¡¯m no lurker either. Others trust me here, and for the most part, I trust them. They don¡¯t know who I am. I¡¯m not stupid enough to put that out there. But everyone allowed in seems to be real, because before any of us sees the first letter of a post from someone else, we must answer questions about our dreams. Jorum¡ªhimself, herself, themselves¡ªapproves or disapproves, and our answers become permanently affixed to our profiles. Of course, the disapprovals never show up. Who knows what they say? The chosen though most of our dreams align with eerie similarity.

    I stumble across Jorum¡¯s Table two years ago following hints from r/dreamfolx. Where the subreddit currently has close to eight thousand members, the Table only has a little more than three hundred. Less than a hundred when I first join. As the number of people grow, the posts increase exponentially. I choose not to read them all. There¡¯s too much darkness to actually go through each piece, but it¡¯s nice to have support when I need it or offer a little on occasion.

    The last couple of days, I need support, or more precisely, I need answers.

    I search the message archives first. A search for Freemont craps out. Same for Martin. I punch in my own name, but nothing comes back that I haven¡¯t already seen. Some of it bullshit, some of it speculation, some of it concern but nothing I can correct them on or offer a meaningful comment to without outing myself. Looking at Mississippi may be a bit too broad, but I run the iterations anyway. After two hours and many more posts than I expect, I¡¯m ready to give up when I strike a potential golden nugget in a year-old post.

    TOPIC: CB-Folx

    USER: M-I-CrookedLtr

    Anyone in NW MS check the CB club. Might not look like your thing. Look closer. DM for details.

    No search required for me to recognize CB. Any ¡®family¡¯ in the north part of the state at least knows of the club. If someone wants to feel like they¡¯re a big-city queer, CB is the place to go without actually heading to either Memphis or New Orleans. Okay, maybe Memphis is a bad example. My point being, if I want a place to feel like a gay bar and not a grown-up skating rink, CB is right there in Freemont waiting.

    I¡¯ve visited a few times. Tends to make the DOSE security team extremely antsy. If that were the only drawback, I¡¯d be there every weekend. But unfortunately, I do my own bartending shifts elsewhere. Regardless, as plugged in as I am, this old post is the first I¡¯m hearing of any underground connection between CB and people with powers.

    Whoever this M-I-Crooked person is seems to be waving a flag for folks like us being welcome at CB, too. Freemont makes some sense. Biggest city in the state. Largest university in the state. Most liberal spot in the state. And, well, not like us in the alphabet mafia don¡¯t understand being misunderstood. At the same time, DOSE never talks about Freemont as a hot spot. I never even heard them think about the city that way until yesterday morning.

    I click on M-I¡¯s profile. Their past posts may tell me a bit more about who I¡¯m dealing with. The first entry is, of course, their dream, and I¡¯m dumbstruck from the jump.

    TOPIC: Initial Dream

    USER: M-I-CrookedLtr

    During my senior year, I thought I was losing my mind. Was the stress too much? Grades? Tests? College applications? Was this the reason that every time I went to sleep, [redacted] came to me? He never threatened me, but his presence¡ª I could tell from his presence that he wanted more. More than I could give. He didn¡¯t have to say it. When he came, the world took on another hue. I saw¡­ things, other beings. I told him they scared me. I told him I didn¡¯t want to see them anymore. The next time I dreamed¡ªthe next time he came¡ªthey were gone. I¡¯d never seen his face before, and he didn¡¯t show it then. It was always hazy, like a camera out of focus, or not enough light to really see. But we talked. More and more, we talked. One day, [redacted] ¡­ I trusted him then. I knew what my dreams meant then. And, I¡¯ve been discovering what my powers can really be.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    Whoever this is, they know its name! No one knows its name. And what the hell? They trust this thing? Does DOSE know about this? Is this why they¡¯re focusing on Freemont? And their dreams don¡¯t really track with any of the ones I¡¯ve heard or experienced. But Jorum approves, and they haven¡¯t been kicked off, so they deserve the benefit of my doubt.

    Unlike M-I, my dreams take place in the sky. The man-thing from the box is free. He, it, pushes up and up on those powerful wings into storm-filled clouds. He carries me with him. Everything grows dark. Lightning sparks between thunderheads, igniting them to eardrum splitting rumbles. But they can¡¯t drown out his voice. His voice isn¡¯t heard; it¡¯s felt. The tone conducts through bone and lodges in the soul.

    As we rise above the storm, the hues of sky change to a garish gray-green, tinted in deep crimson. He speaks of power, of me being the firstborn, of a world remade as it should¡¯ve been long before. I don¡¯t beg for freedom. I don¡¯t say anything. I can scarcely breathe.

    It, he asks me for one thing though. He bids me come when he calls.

    I crack the sides of my face with open palms, afraid that I might accidentally slip into a nap and summon the damn thing. Remembering the dreams is bad enough. I notice that I¡¯m sweating in a chilly room and realize I could use a breather.

    Heath should be around somewhere on his farm. He may be out in the barns or fields somewhere, but he¡¯ll answer if I¡¯m the one calling. He picks up on the third ring.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± A typical Heath greeting.

    ¡°Uh, nothing. Why? Something wrong at the farm?¡±

    A deep sigh and the chuffing of a pig answer me. ¡°Literally same shit. But you ain¡¯t called me at four in the afternoon to shoot the breeze.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± I draw the word to a tease. ¡°Can¡¯t call mama just cause?¡±

    ¡°Boy¡ª¡±

    ¡°Alright,¡± I give up the innocent flirt, knowing better than to push my luck, ¡°I needed a break. You know I don¡¯t really have any friends. So¡­I called you.¡±

    The squealing and scraping in the background go quiet, meaning he finally took me off speakerphone. ¡°What do you need a break from so bad that you called me?¡±

    Ahh, the tricky part. Heath knows a little bit about me. Not enough to be a security risk or get DOSE up his ass. He doesn¡¯t want to know more either. So, I keep it simple and lie, sort of.

    ¡°Research. I do hope to, you know, get an actual job one day. There¡¯s a lot to cover senior year.¡±

    ¡°Ohhh,¡± his voice notches up a couple octaves, ¡°you been filling out applications all day, huh?¡±

    He has jokes now. ¡°Not¡­yet. Homework is bad enough as it is.¡±

    ¡°Uh-huh.¡± Deadpan. No sympathy from this guy. Mom and Day may not bug me about what I¡¯m going to do after school; Heath is relentless.

    This really isn¡¯t taking my mind off things, but I do get an idea. ¡°Think I could pick up extra shifts if I wanted?¡±

    ¡°Pfft,¡± Heath blows into the phone. ¡°Do I look like I make the schedules? You know you ask Gerald for that. But pick up, take off, he¡¯ll give cute little Kian whatever¡ª¡±

    ¡°Okay, I get it. You can stop. And¡­I¡¯m not little.¡± Heath has more sass than ass, which is expected for a six-five drag queen who also happens to own a farm and be the local mailman. Interesting guy, ole Keith.

    The aforementioned Gerald owns Whispers, a hill country, gay bar in the middle of nowhere on the other side of Quail Lake at which Heath and I both happen to work. Gerald employs me as eye candy behind the bar and occasional back-up dancer for Heath. Unlike Heath, Gerald thinks he¡¯s thirty years younger than he is. Which wouldn¡¯t be a bad thing, if he didn¡¯t expect every guy who¡¯s actually in their early twenties to think so, too. Heath¡¯s correct though: Gerald¡¯s lechery works to my advantage. As the great proverb says, ¡®If you¡¯re gonna play the game, boy, you gotta learn to play it right.¡¯

    When Heath finally reels in his laugh at my ¡®not being little¡¯ comment, I bid him happy mucking and return my attention to the computer screen.

    Further exploration is required, so I check M-I¡¯s membership date and get another shock. They¡¯re one of the first to have signed up. Like me, they don¡¯t post much. Not anymore. All their posts are from early on. Mostly, they¡¯re like the whole world¡ªnew to power and trying to figure them out, alongside the revelations in their dreams. After awhile they switch to responding to others more than anything.

    I consider a DM to M-I, but caution wins over bravery. I go for the longshot dog whistle instead.

    TOPIC: Mississippi Trending ?

    USER: Hued_Shadow

    Anybody else feel weird about their daily dose of reality lately? I notice Mississippi getting more attention. Think the dreams may have something to do with it? Are we safe down this way?

    I keep the post short with barely any veil. I kept any location hints far away from any of my previous posts. The most I¡¯ve said before about where I am is rural. M-I¡¯s responses center on people in the south. Not exclusively, but the pattern is clear. I¡¯m fishing and hoping for one particular bite. If their screen name is any indication, they won¡¯t be able to resist.

 7 - MICAH

    DAWN STREAMS IN RIVULETS through the forest¡¯s canopy. A slight chill tinges the air, the first signs of Fall. Near a patch of late-season honeysuckle, highlighted by the early light, a perfect shot awaits.

    My grip tightens on the camera¡¯s body. I nimbly roll my fingers around the focus rings. I inhale a shallow breath from my hiding spot and slightly depress the shutter release. Leftover mist beads on each of the ten points crowning the buck¡¯s head. He samples the honeysuckle slowly, not a care in the world. All my nerve endings fire, as I fully depress the release. He stills, head popping up ever so slightly. Light breaths become visible in the cold. Another shot.

    Chaos erupts. I barely see the arrow enter the frame, but I¡¯m subconsciously and literally capturing it all¡ªthe breathy whir of the held shutter click-clicking faster than heartbeats. The shaft wobbles and jerks almost as if thumped by an unseen hand. But it still strikes. My rushing pulse silences the forest, as I watch brush sway away with the buck¡¯s flight. An insane protective urge takes over me, and I fly after him.

    Three hundred yards of chase later, I stop to allow the return of sound. Through nature¡¯s white noise of chattering squirrels and angry mockingbirds, branches snap unnaturally. I catch his trail again.

    Faint scents of musk and iron linger above the wet, packed leaves. Throughout the wee hours, a steady sprinkle darkened the undergrowth. This marks the deer¡¯s faint trail for me now. Though the crimson peters out by the top of the next gully, the signs point to him being very close. Yet, kudzu blankets half the landscape in front of me, creating thickly vined hidey holes. The buck is not making himself easy to track. I wouldn¡¯t either.

    But I have to find him. The compelling thought surges me again. And on its heels, the reasonable: Why though?

    My current path along the top of a well-known ridge between gullies has been converted into a makeshift construction road. One of Dad¡¯s biggest construction projects lies a quarter mile north. I now realize the irony in its name. So, keeping north, the cover thins out to a couple square miles-wide area of dirt. Deer know that, and hurt ones find cover. Meaning the deer went the way of the ravine.

    I readjust my camera and scan deeper into the sandy runoff and creeping vines.

    Crap.

    I spot him coming to a halt at the base of an old maple jutting up in an area sparse on kudzu. Zooming reveals the arrow lodged in his upper flank. Doesn¡¯t look deep enough to hit anything vital. But an infection setting up is very likely. Again, I wonder what I¡¯m doing. Not like I¡¯m some redneck Snow White, or maybe I am? But what if whoever shot this thing shows up?

    The camera drops away from my face, and I spin around to observe the trees behind me. No sounds of running or calling out. I try recalling hearing anyone else from the moment I first started the chase. But I¡¯m not sure. I refocus on the buck below.

    Something tugs at my foot, as I readjust myself. There¡¯s just enough time to think, Damn vines before my ankle twists in the loose sand. The buck¡¯s head snaps in my direction. I¡¯ve held on to now, but my vision goes blurry through the lens. Readjusting the focus is futile.

    ¡°THE FU¡ª¡± I¡¯m tumbling.

    Shouts rip out of me, as I attempt to save my camera from a brutal impact. I manage to keep it tucked close. After another roll and a wild forward pitch, I crash land in the muck not far from the maple.

    ¡Þ ¡Þ ¡Þ

    I slowly haul myself up to my knees. Nothing feels broken. I won¡¯t know for sure until the adrenaline wears off. Bits of mud fleck the camera, but that¡¯s not where my mind is right now. I fish the lens cap out of my pocket, pop it on, and swing the camera to my side.

    I¡¯m stiff but manage to stand. If anyone was looking for a deer, they heard all that. Probably not happy about it either. I have to see.

    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    I approach the maple with quiet steps. The fletching, three, orange, carbon-fiber vanes send up a small flare, poking around the trunk.

    No way.

    I hurry around the other side.

    ¡°What the hell!¡± The sight sends me to my ass, again, trying to push away but failing due to the mud.

    Two yards away, a completely naked guy¡ªno, Wes¡­ WES ANSLEY, curls against the tree in a half fetal position. The shaft of an arrow juts from his shoulder at an odd angle. The point of its head pierces slightly through his back.

    He¡¯s glaring at me like I¡¯m a serial killer.

    ¡°I¡­ I¡¯ll. I won¡¯t hurt you.¡± I manage and try to move closer. My brain whirls to process what I¡¯m seeing. All the stories from Gran and Dad spiraling to the fore.

    He grimaces. Looking as if he wants to crawl into the tree.

    I stop and hold up my hands. ¡°I don¡¯t have a bow. I have a, uh..¡± I motion to my side. ¡°Camera. I¡¯ve just¡­ just been taking shots. Pics!¡±

    He¡¯s not buying this. The look in his eyes says it all. Doesn¡¯t change the fact that he¡¯s losing blood. I don¡¯t have any idea how much is enough to be bad for a human. And, I don¡¯t think, it¡¯s a fatal wound. But this is still not good in any way.

    Dammit. What is this? They¡¯re really telling the truth! This shit is real!

    ¡°Look,¡± I ease off my jacket. ¡°I know I¡¯m probably the last person you want help from right now. But you¡¯ve got to get covered up.¡±

    I extend the jacket. ¡°I don¡¯t know who,¡± I point at the arrow, ¡°shot you, but I¡¯m here now. So, you¡¯re safe¡­ At least, I¡¯m not going to let anyone shoot you. I¡¯ll get help.¡±

    He gives me a confused look, but his fingers uncurl from their death grip on the bark. I keep the jacket extended and try to look as non-threatening as possible. Still, he doesn¡¯t move to take it.

    ¡°Wes, we can,¡± I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m about to say this, because Dad is going to kill me no matter what, ¡°go to the cops. But first I need to get you out of the woods.¡±

    He shifts slightly and tries to raise his arm, which ends in a cry of pure agony.

    I almost fall but move in just enough to cover him. He goes stone still, unnaturally still, except for his slight tremoring. It takes a second to adjust the slippery, waterproof material around his frame. The tremor gets worse. His eyes are wide, dark pits of fear. Green turning almost black. The total effect reminds me of an animal caught in a trap.

    I scoot back a few feet. ¡°Sorry. Sorry. I wouldn¡¯t trust me either. But, you¡¯ll go into shock.¡±

    At least with me out of his general bubble, his hyperventilating stops.

    ¡°Um, I hate to ask. But what exactly is going on?¡± I stare away to his side. Someone else needs to say it. Third-party confirmation.

    He studies me like I¡¯ve asked him the question in a foreign language. I¡¯m considering another approach when he speaks.

    ¡°Why?¡± The word comes choked and hoarse.

    ¡°Well, uh, I mean wouldn¡¯t it be better if I¡ª¡± I try to keep my tone as polite as possible, but he¡¯s shaking his head halfway through.

    ¡°Not th¡ª.¡± He struggles with the words over chattering teeth. ¡°Why help me?¡±

    ¡°Why the hell wouldn¡¯t I help you?¡± The words fly out more heated than I intend. I backpedal as quick as possible. ¡°I mean. You¡¯re hurt. I¡¯m not a psychopath. Why wouldn¡¯t I help you?¡±

    For a second, confusion scrambles over his face again, but his eyes drift behind me, then jump in their sockets as he screams, ¡°NO, KAY! NO¡±

    The next few seconds bend reality. Wes flings himself from the tree. His body contorts to bring his good arm around, as he uses the momentum to grapple me sideways. As a pained scream tears out of him, my temple catches fire. My peripheral vision fills with a slash of gray and brown before red pours in with pain from above. My lizard brain must be working overtime. I find enough purchase to clumsily launch Wes and myself back toward the tree and face whatever lies behind me.

    Less than a yard away, an incredibly pissed off doe snorts and stamps the churned mud in front of us. Wes rasps out, ¡°For fuck¡¯s sake, Kay, STOP!¡± The doe doesn¡¯t charge, but she doesn¡¯t stop snorting and stamping either. Very long moments pass, and the doe retreats a dozen feet to frustratedly¡­ pace.

    My brain catches up to the situation. This is a friend¡­ or family member. Shit. She thinks I¡¯m trying to hurt him.

    ¡°Look, no, no,¡± I say to the doe, which batters against my internal sense of sanity, ¡°I¡¯m only trying to¡ª¡±

    ¡°Not now,¡± Wes bites down on the words. His eyes fixed hard on the doe.

    I clamp my mouth shut and wait.

    If anything were actually being said, I¡¯d swear an argument were taking place. Wes shakes his head. The doe snorts some more. I¡¯m finally aware how much my head is bleeding and silently consider that I¡¯m just unconscious and fever dreaming the whole thing.

    ¡°That¡¯s just how it¡¯s going to have to be, Kay.¡± Wes declares aloud, startling me. ¡°But¡­ yes, I wish you would at least stay close.¡±

    He turns back to me and gives me the short version of what just went down and what needs to happen. Once we get him standing, I strip off my overalls and guide him into them. Trying to dress my wounded, naked crush for a hike through the woods is precisely as awkward as it sounds. Fortunately, the doe, his sister Kay as it turns out, looms close. Combine the threat of mauling with a fresh head wound and only the most deviated masochist would find any of this arousing.

    I thread myself under his uninjured shoulder, and Kay starts us in the direction of their home.

 8 - WES

    FUNNY THING ABOUT PAIN, fear can stay it for a bit. When fear turns out not to be enough of an opiate, embarrassment works. Would¡¯ve called anyone who told me that a liar before today. My shoulder¡¯s screaming, but I¡¯m so god damned doped on embarrassment that I keep that shit shoved way down.

    In this situation, there¡¯s no good reason at all for me to feel the way I do. I didn¡¯t shoot myself, but if I hadn¡¯t wandered to the bounds of the property, where the wards, or whatever, are weak, no one would¡¯ve been able to hit me in the first place. Insult to¡­ yeah, Micah shows up, and I think the worst. It¡¯s why I avoided him after being the one to ask for his number. Photojournalism major. No shit, self. Now, he¡¯s playing my personal hero after giving up his over clothes while staving off a gusher that my sister gave him. And, and, and¡­ this freaking sucks!

    I groan into my chest, and Micah halts.

    ¡°Are you alright? Do we need to readjust?¡±

    I take a minute to catch my breath. We¡¯re almost back. A few hundred feet and we¡¯ll clear the tree line. Kay¡¯s gone ahead to change back and put some clothes on.

    ¡°I¡¯m¡­as good as I¡¯m gonna get right now.¡±

    Crusted blood and sweat streak Micah¡¯s face. The eye closest to his cut temple nearly mashes shut from the swelling. He doesn¡¯t look at me with guilt or with his own pain. He¡¯s only concerned. For the thousandth time on this walk, I wonder why.

    ¡°I really need to know something,¡± I say as we restart our hobble.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve known since we swapped numbers what I am, who I am, and I know exactly the same things about you. So¡ª¡±

    ¡°Wes,¡± he breaths my name with such force that I nearly trip. He steadies me but doesn¡¯t stop what he wants to get out. ¡°Until ten months ago, I knew jack about¡­any of this. Hunters, powers, whatever blood feud there is between Ansley and Janison. Nothing. Nada. Went eighteen years in the real world, then I got thrown into the Upside Down. Honestly, I don¡¯t know much more than the basics. The only thing I¡¯m sure of is that I don¡¯t want to be part of any redneck, Hatfield and McCoy shit.¡±

    He comes up for air as we hit the open clearing leading up to my house.

    ¡°Damn¡­it¡¯s even nicer in person.¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡± I swivel my eyes between him and his gaze up at the house. I can¡¯t tell if he¡¯s blushing, winded, or it¡¯s just all the dried blood.

    ¡°Uh, sorry, I sort of creeped on your Insta,¡± he mumbles, leading us forward.

    The non-sequitur throws me. ¡°Oh, well it¡¯s not private or anything.¡± His face has gone all scrunchy, and it hits me. ¡°Ohhh, you saw me and¡ª¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± he blurts, ¡°no, I saw, I mean. It¡¯s cool. I just didn¡¯t want to¡­¡± His words die on the wind.

    There¡¯s no time to try explaining, if I even could, before the back door blows off from the tsunami of Mom, Dad, and of course, Kay.

    My parents usher us all into the kitchen. Mom¡¯s a doctor. Back in Austin, she worked the ER, so she does trauma like a boss. Though, this is a bit more than one of our average boo-boos. But if that bothers her, she¡¯s not showing it.

    Micah shuffles to the far side of the table after Mom directs his deposit of me into a chair. Kay champs at the bit to tear him a new one, as if she hasn¡¯t done enough already. She wants to send him traipsing back into the forest. Mom and Dad shut that down quick like.

    ¡°If whoever did this is still out there and saw him help Wes,¡± Dad bores a hole in Kay, ¡°unfortunately, accidents happen, and we will not be a party to them.¡± She drops any voiced arguments after that. Doesn¡¯t stop her death stare.

    From her trauma bag, Mom produces two unlabeled bottles of something clear. She plunks one on the table but uncaps the other and turns to me. ¡°Drink it all.¡±

    Off my feet, the adrenaline flees, leaving me confused enough not to realize what¡¯s in front of my face. ¡°Peroxide?¡± I ask warily.

    Mom lightly runs her hands through my hair like when I was a little kid. ¡°Not peroxide, honey, it¡¯s¡ª¡± Her words halt long enough for me to notice the light emphasis she places on the next. ¡°Only water.¡± She guides my working hand to one of the bottles and helps me drink.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Dad shifts his weight from one foot to the other, awaiting orders. Kay continues to scowl from her perch by the sink. Mom¡¯s process has either hypnotized Micah, or his system¡¯s crashing like mine. His eyes are just short of a vacant lot.

    Mom finishes laying out her kit and bathing my wounds in antiseptic. She glances at Micah and snaps her fingers, pointing to the chair he¡¯s currently using as a crutch. ¡°Sit. You¡¯re about thirty seconds away from passing out if don¡¯t.¡±

    His neck jerks, and his face loses some its stupor. ¡°Yes, ma¡¯am,¡± he pronounces blearily and pours slowly into the chair.

    ¡°How is he?¡± Dad moves himself closer.

    After assuring him that nothing vital is hit, she explains that she needs to numb the area before¡ª Pushing. It. Out. I grimace at the thought. She explains the process to me as she injects a dozen different spots around my shoulder with lidocaine. As promised, it hurts.

    Worry deflates Dad a bit, but he¡¯s angry, too. ¡°Where were you?¡± His eyes target mine.

    I swallow the lump in my throat and lie, ¡°This side of the ridge.¡±

    Kay throws some major shade from behind Dad, but she doesn¡¯t have any proof. I was on this side of the ridge by the time she showed up. Only Micah could contradict me, and from the stricken look on his face, I doubt it.

    ¡°No Hunter should not have been able to hit you.¡± His voice goes dangerously calm.

    Kay makes a triumphant noise. Dad turns and gives her a glare that could melt steel. I shrug, which sends a wince through me. Mom squeezes the other shoulder. ¡°Hold still. And, Andrew, this can wait.¡± Her eyes prick him as sharply as the needle in her hand.

    Never one to know when enough is enough, I just have to add. ¡°If Micah weren¡¯t there¡­ whoever it was might¡¯ve finished the job.¡± Mom and Dad share twin grimaces. Kay narrows her eyes.

    A dull click punctuates the end of my explanation as the arrow¡¯s fletching is cut free. Mom and Dad do that unspoken parent telepathy thing.

    Kays cork finally pops. ¡°C¡¯mon, he was right up on you when I got there. No Hunters. Now, poof, one appears two days after you meet him in the coffee shop?¡±

    See if I tell you anything again, Kay. I launch the telepathic dagger.

    ¡°He gave me his clothes and carried me home.¡± I say with as much heat as possible. Though I¡¯m not entirely sure why I¡¯m defending him. Not like I really know the guy at all. But I¡¯ve got a pretty good BS meter, and Hunters don¡¯t react like he did. Even if technically¡­ maybe¡­ he is one? We didn¡¯t go into a lot of detail with Mom and Dad, so unanswered questions are thick enough to breathe right now.

    ¡°Enough,¡± Mom commands without leaving her study of the arrow. She directs Dad behind me. He scrutinizes Kay with the intensity of a physics exam, while he gets into position to hold me down for the worst part.

    ¡°Wes, open your mouth.¡± Mom¡¯s order snaps my attention away from glaring at Kay.

    ¡°Huh?¡±  I open my mouth. She inserts a roll of gauze between my teeth, explaining that I don¡¯t need to bite my tongue off, yet.

    She stands in front of me and nods. After a countdown from three, fireworks explode in front of my eyes. Red and yellow light pops. As quickly as the liquid pain comes, it goes. In its place, a peaceful cold. I pry my eyes back open to find Dad bathing the fresh hole in my shoulder with the second bottle of water, while Mom prepares to begin stitches.

    A retching draws my attention across the room. Kay doubles over the galley sink, heaving chunks. At first, I think it serves her right but immediately feel guilty.

    I¡¯ve been giving her shit, but I put Kay in a bad position. Logically, she¡¯s only watching out for me. It¡¯s how both of us are wired. Threaten one, you get an ass-load of the other. Once this settles down, I¡¯ll have to catch her and apologize in private.

    ¡°Okay, just need to close up the back.¡± Mom finishes stitching my front.

    Dad switches her places. ¡°How¡¯re you feeling?¡±

    I squint at him, and an involuntary giggle catches me off guard. ¡°Sorry. There¡¯s nothing funny. I¡¯m¡­ actually pretty good.¡±

    He laughs, too and appears to breathe for the first time in a while. He toys with one of the empty bottles on the table.

    ¡°It¡¯s like after they pulled my wisdom teeth.¡± Me whining about Raising Cane¡¯s needing an ice cream menu and making up slurred limericks about chicken went viral.

    Dad grins, and Mom chuckles behind me.

    ¡°Jeez Wes, it¡¯s the cistern¡¯s¡ª¡±

    ¡°Kay!¡± Dad¡¯s extremely uncharacteristic shout leaves the room ringing.

    ¡°Dad, it¡¯s okay. I¡¯m¡ª¡±

    Mom quiets me with a gentle shake of her head. I don¡¯t get the big deal here. Apparently, Kay doesn¡¯t either. Slapping her sideways might not have left her with the blood rising in her face.

    Kay snorts and shoves herself away from the counter. ¡°Whatever. The golden child is safe now. You¡¯re welcome.¡± Her words fly back to us, as she storms from the room and crashes up the stairs.

    We all, Micah included, stare at the invisible wake, too stunned for a response. Dad sighs and pads out behind her.

    With all my insides sewed back together, Mom gives me an antibiotic. She instructs me to stay seated for a few minutes while she attends to Micah. After swinging by the fridge to grab a generic bottle of water, she slides the kit in front of him. Though she looks over the wound, she stops short of beginning to work. Instead, she takes his hands in hers.

    ¡°Your Patricia¡¯s son¡­aren¡¯t you?¡±

    Micah flinches as if she¡¯s flicked him between the eyes. ¡°Y-you know my mom?¡±

    Mom doesn¡¯t look away, but she speaks so softly it¡¯s hard to make out. ¡°I did. A long time ago. She¡ª¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Micah knifes in, not coldly but seeming to cushion himself from another blow. ¡°I know.¡±

    Mom nods and applies some peroxide to a gauze pad. She begins to apply the treatment but pulls back again. ¡°Micah, I don¡¯t know why you helped our son. And,¡± she talks over his attempt to speak, ¡°I don¡¯t care. Wes is right. You probably saved his life, so thank you.¡±

    He accepts the thanks with a quiet mumble. Mom washes his face free of the grime and treats his wounds as tenderly as mine. Four stitches, a bottle of regular water, and a promise to take him around to his abandoned truck later, he only looks worn out instead of like a collapsing house.

    Mom packs up the medical supplies and goes in search of Dad to help me upstairs.

    Maybe it¡¯s the cistern¡¯s water or exhaustion or some weird sort of gratitude, but I stretch my hand across the table toward him. He doesn¡¯t hold it but lets his own out enough that the tips of our fingers cross and rest comfortably against each other.

 9 - KIAN

    I EXPECT TO WAIT on M-I for a few days and resort to a DM, if necessary. They decide to frustrate me within twenty-fours, with a reply waiting by the time I get back home to Mom and Dad¡¯s house from Whispers in the wee hours of Sunday morning. A DM, turns out, is necessary. They keep the message brief, bordering on rude.

    REPLY TO: Mississippi Trending ?

    USER: M-I-CrookedLtr

    Yes. Seems a lot of dosing up is going on in Mississippi. Sounds like you could use an ear. See: TOPIC: CB-Folx. Talk soon¡­ maybe.

    What do British people call this? Cheeky? In the U.S., it¡¯s just called being an ass. I remind myself that we¡¯re people with unheard of powers, at least I am, using a dark web message board. Everyone¡¯s social game has the depth of a teaspoon.

    I don¡¯t bother going back to the CB-Folx post. I can read minds, so reading between these lines isn¡¯t hard. I cue up a DM window for M-I-CrookedLtr and launch another calculated risk into cyberspace. Supposedly the message lands somewhere in Mississippi.

    Sleep crawls over me as soon as I snap off my monitor and fall into bed.

    Jangling bells wake me around noon. My phone takes a wallop before I realize the sound is floating up the stairs.

    ¡°I¡¯m up!¡± I shout down to Mom. Missing Sunday lunch is a big no-no, and Mom invents sadistic ways to ensure I don¡¯t.

    ¡°Oh, Kian,¡± her sing-song cadence comes back, ¡°we¡¯ve got about thirty minutes before everything is ready.¡± Translation: Wash the bar stink off your ass before hauling it down to my table. Which I received the word-for-word translation of the first time I failed to do so.

    By the time, I¡¯m up to standards¡ªmine anyway, I¡¯m out of time for checking if M-I deigns me worthy of a fresh reply. Why I¡¯ve begun picturing this individual as a rather short, plaid-wearing snob instead of another jeans and t-shirt redneck, I¡¯m not sure, but the new image sticks in my head.

    I enter our dining room still bouncing outfits off the M-I character in my head. The fact that I¡¯m not even considering who might be in the room aside from my parents makes it all the more jarring when I recognize a foreign stray thought zipping through my mind. Like its own sort of smelling salt, the thought draws me fully into the collective conscious of the room.

    Mom¡¯s back is turned my direction, and I see Dad on the porch pulling ribs off the grill. So, who the hell¡¯s the guy sitting at the table? I¡¯m inside his head within two ticks of the clock. He¡¯s an agent. Ah, one of the new ones¡­ But not new to DOSE. David¡­ Martin. There it is. Part of the group Paxley keeps worrying on. Crap, he notices something¡¯s up.

    I flee his mind before he can rise. While my next move isn¡¯t the smartest, I decide to have a little fun.

    ¡°David?¡± I approach and extend a hand. ¡°Nice to meet you.¡±

    Mom¡¯s mouth hangs open, and David takes way too long to reciprocate my greeting. When his brain and tongue meet each other again, he makes zero attempt to cover up his shock.

    ¡°I¡¯m a bit lost,¡± he confesses. ¡°How do you know who I am?¡±

    Normally, I give agents a wide latitude, but Paxley, Vander, Roberts, the whole DOSE crew have been cagey since reporting on the changes with my winged oppressor. If what M-I says is true and things in Mississippi are heating up, life is going to heat up for my family. Whether they¡¯re ordinary human agents like Vander and Roberts or can transform into some kind of mountain lion like Paxley, I¡¯m about to start using my power for answers.

    ¡°I¡­don¡¯t know. Your name just came to me when I saw you sitting there. It¡¯s like I¡¯d known you were coming.¡± I keep it innocently prophetic. Enough for a good few paragraphs in whatever report he files.

    David chances a look at Mom for help, but she¡¯s homing in on me. If I didn¡¯t know better¡ªand I do¡ªI¡¯d swear she was telepathic. Dad rescues the moment by cluelessly striding in with his platter full of ribs and a boisterous ¡°Let¡¯s eat.¡±

    My ambush shakes David. Whatever his game, he¡¯s off it. I¡¯ll credit him a good front. Mom and Dad can¡¯t tell a thing. But even the teensiest dip inside his head reveals a bumper car pileup of epic proportion. In one way, I feel bad for him, but of his own, verbal admittance: he¡¯s not actually going to be part of my detail. This tidbit erases most of my guilt, because if you¡¯re not going to be helping me, then screw you. Are you just here for the show?

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    So, you just stopped in to get a glimpse of the firstborn. Yay, you!

    Several things happen, not all at once, but I feel like they do. First is a first. I realize that although I said absolutely nothing, David heard me loud and clear. Meaning what? I¡¯m speaking inside his head, like that freak show does in mine. Second, distracting from the more important first but probably for the best, David very nearly chokes on a bite of roll he¡¯d taken moments before my unintended psychic assault. These are followed by general alarm from Mom and Dad over an issue that neither David, despite his hacking, nor I, who haven¡¯t budged, have bothered to actually care about.

    What starts as a cowbell call for a normal, Sunday lunch ends with an ah-ha moment for all of us and two hours of follow up.

    David steps out and calls down to the gate. Vander, Paxley, and Abrams¡ªthe Detachment Lead, whose presence means serious business is at hand¡ªspeed up in record time, but David vanishes like a fart in a hurricane. Shaken, Mom and Dad invite them to the living room. They lead our grim procession past the forgotten entrails of lunch, back through the kitchen, and onto the soon-to-be pyre of our sectional.

    Because DOSE isn¡¯t a bunch of idiots, Paxley starts them off. ¡°Micah, Agent Martin informs us that you¡¯ve begun manifesting new powers. Are you able to explain those?¡±

    I let them think I¡¯m trying to find the words, when I¡¯m really trying to find out what Paxley knows. Something¡¯s there but it¡¯s too opaque for me latch onto. ¡°I¡¯m not very good at it, but I think I can¡­read minds.¡± Saying that aloud feels good and sounds insane, no matter how true it is.

    Abrams sits up much straighter, and Vander throws a dark look Paxley¡¯s direction. For her part, Paxley maintains her normal composure. ¡°If you know, when did this ability manifest?¡± She asks with a sympathetic smile, as if I wouldn¡¯t take note of when I suddenly started traipsing into other people¡¯s heads.

    This question makes me nervous. Lying is an option, but I might save those for more technical questions. ¡°Well, I,¡± Vander¡¯s leaning slightly forward, and Abram¡¯s brow creases like someone folding paper. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I guess it¡¯s been awhile? I suddenly just started¡­knowing things when I talked to people. Sometimes I thought they¡¯d said something, and other times I thought I was just getting good at reading the room. You know?¡±

    Vander cuts Paxley off before she can follow up. ¡°But you were able to plant a thought in Agent Martin¡¯s head. Correct? To speak without speaking, if you will?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve never done that before today!¡± I answer loudly, honestly.

    He raises a surrendering set of hands, but there¡¯s a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

    Paxley quickly takes over, ¡°We¡¯re only concerned for your safety, your parents¡¯ safety. We don¡¯t know much about these new abilities or how they collectively work.¡±

    The blurry thought from earlier crystalizes in her mind, and I can¡¯t help the startle. Her face grows concerned; then, it pops with the realization of what just happened. Paxley hangs her head.

    Abrams clocks all of this and makes it worse, for them. ¡°Micah, you don¡¯t have any reason to lie to¡ª¡±

    He never finishes the thought. Dad¡¯s on him like a starving dog on steak. They go round and round for a few minutes. Dad wants answers, real answers, and DOSE keeps feeding him obfuscation. What they seem to have incredibly forgotten in that moment is me. With every denial, half-truth, and ¡®we don¡¯t know,¡¯ their minds spill information about dreams, abilities, intentions, fears.

    True, they don¡¯t understand a lot of what they learn. It¡¯s the fears that keep them from telling us more though. They aren¡¯t bad guys. Their problem is they know who the worst guy is but not how all of us impacted by him will eventually react. What if we turn into the enemy? Even I can admit that¡¯s a fair point.

    ¡°Just stop!¡± I clap my hands like my third-grade teacher used to do. It works. I turn to Mom and Dad. ¡°Let¡¯s come back to this. Okay? Give us all time to get over the shock.¡±

    As they rise to leave, the temptation to give them a taste of their own minds hovers just behind my lips. For my parents¡¯ sake, I hold back. Aside from Paxley, watching DOSE agents fight throw pillows due to nervous energy is satisfying by itself.

    A god of something must exist. For my eensy trade of admitting to some psychic abilities, I receive a bounty of information. To Mom and Dad, I confess most of what I know about myself. They aren¡¯t remotely upset with me and get why I wouldn¡¯t want to mention anything. Once we¡¯ve hugged it out, I slip back upstairs to give them their own time to process.

    I boot up my computer, and while it whirs to life, I notice a rangy, dark coyote slipping through the trees way down the drive. I¡¯d love to see the look on Roberts¡¯s face if he saw that. The man has a pathological aversion to all things doglike. Maybe I¡¯ll tell him one slipped the gate when I head to campus in a bit.

    Back to the task at hand. I boot all the necessary security features and ¡®take my seat,¡¯ as we say, at the Table. M-I doesn¡¯t disappoint, but they¡¯re still an ass.

    DIRECT MESSAGE

    Hued_Shadow: Can¡¯t do CB. Whispers in Saltville?

    M-I-CrookedLtr: How quaint¡­ Sure. Wednesday night. Don¡¯t worry about how to recognize me. I¡¯ll recognize you.

    Hued_Shadow: Oookay. See you then.

    I could do CB. But with all the weird vibes coming off my agents about Freemont, I figure an off-day trip, and my first in a while, to an apparent underground hotbed for pwps to be unwise. At least, M-I seems to get that much, and how they¡¯ll recognize me isn¡¯t a big mystery. They¡¯ve posted about their ability enough for me to know it¡¯s a stronger version of mine.

    My only issue: not being on the Whispers¡¯ schedule for Wednesday. Nothing prevents me from just showing up, but again, it¡¯d be another red flag. Luckily, I saw this coming, and the fix is easy. I open my contacts and call Gerald.