Chapter 7

The black car smelled like leather and something else. Something old. Like a library nobody had visited in years.

I sat in the passenger seat with my head against the window, watching Millbrook slide past. The park. The Presbyterian church. The strip mall where Mom used to take me for ice cream when I was small. All of it looked flat now, like scenery in a play I'd already stopped believing in.

Cross didn't take me home.

I noticed when she turned left instead of right at the intersection by the old mill. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere quiet. You need time to stabilize before we talk to your father."

"I need to go home. He was expecting me at the hardware store."

"And you didn't show up. He's worried. But showing up like this won't help either of you." She glanced at me. "You're still radiating. Anyone sensitive within twenty feet would feel it. Right now you'd overwhelm your father without meaning to, and that conversation is hard enough without supernatural complications."

I didn't know what radiating meant but I could guess. Whatever had cracked open at the park was still leaking. I could feel it myself, a kind of looseness in my chest where something used to be contained.

We drove for another ten minutes, out past the edge of town where the houses got sparse and the trees got thick. Cross pulled into a gravel lot beside a diner that looked like it hadn't been updated since 1987. Formica counters visible through the window. A neon sign advertising coffee that probably tasted like it had been brewing since then too.

"Here?"

"Best place in three counties to have a conversation nobody will overhear. The owner is an old friend. She keeps certain things off the menu."

I didn't ask what that meant. I was too tired to ask much of anything.

Inside, the diner was almost empty. An old man at the counter nursing a cup of coffee. A woman in a booth near the back doing a crossword puzzle. Neither of them looked up when we walked in.

Cross led me to a booth in the corner. The vinyl seat was cracked and the table was sticky in places. A waitress appeared almost immediately. She had gray hair pulled back in a bun and eyes that seemed to see more than they should.

"Vivian. Been a while."

"Ruth. This is a new student. We need some time."

The waitress looked at me. Really looked, in a way that made me feel like she was reading something written on my skin. Then she nodded.

"Coffee's fresh. Pie's yesterday's but still good. I'll make sure you're not disturbed."

She walked away without taking an order.

Cross folded her hands on the table. "Tell me exactly what happened at the park. Everything you remember."

So I told her. The conversation with Shelby. The accidental touch. The flood of memories and emotions that weren't mine. And then the other thing, the part I still couldn't quite believe.

"I felt the ground," I said. "The park itself. Like I was reading the place instead of just the person. You said I couldn't do that."

"I said it was unusual for someone with your particular gift. I didn't say impossible." She was quiet for a moment. "This is a breakthrough. Your ability is expanding, finding new channels. It happens sometimes with strong talents, especially under stress."

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's neither. It simply is. What matters now is learning to control it before it controls you."

The waitress brought coffee. I wrapped my hands around the cup and let the heat seep into my fingers. It was something to focus on. Something simple and physical and real.

"The school I mentioned. Mudwick. You need to be there. Not next semester, not when you've had time to think about it. Today."

"Today? I can't just leave today. My dad—"

"Will need to understand that you're in danger here. Not physical danger, but something worse. Your gift will keep expanding whether you want it to or not. Without training, without guidance, you'll lose yourself piece by piece. Every person you touch will leave something behind. Every place with enough history will start speaking to you whether you want to hear it or not."

I thought about the grocery store. The stranger's grief knocking me to my knees. That had been bad enough. The idea of it getting worse, of feeling everyone all the time, of drowning in emotions that didn't belong to me...

"What about Shelby? She was there when I collapsed. She's probably freaking out."

"Your friend will have to wait. This is bigger than one friendship."

"That's easy for you to say."

Cross's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind her eyes. "Nothing about this is easy. Not for you, not for the people who care about you, not for me. But easy and necessary are different things."

I drank my coffee. It was bitter and too hot and exactly what I needed.

"Tell me about Mudwick. What is it really?"

So she did. She talked about the school, about the students who came there to learn control, about the history of people like us. She explained place-memory and saturation and the different ways gifts could manifest. She told me about the first semester, about the teachers who would help me build walls in my mind, about the dormitories where I'd sleep surrounded by others who understood what it meant to feel too much.

She talked for over an hour. Maybe two. The light outside the diner windows shifted from morning brightness to something softer, more golden. Afternoon creeping in.

My phone buzzed constantly. I'd silenced it but I could feel it vibrating against my thigh. Shelby. Dad. Probably both. I didn't look.

Finally Cross stopped talking. She studied me across the table like she was waiting for something.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay?"

"I'll go. To Mudwick. Today." The words felt strange coming out of my mouth, like I was agreeing to something much larger than I could understand. "But I need to talk to my dad first. In person. I'm not just disappearing on him."

"Of course. I'll take you home now." She checked her watch. "We need to leave by five at the latest. The portal I'm using opens at dusk and closes at midnight. If we miss the window, we'll have to wait another three days for the next one."

"Portal."

"The school isn't somewhere you can drive to. I'll explain on the way."

She paid for the coffee with cash and left a tip that seemed too large for two cups. The waitress nodded at her as we left, a gesture that felt like it meant something more than goodbye.

Back in the car. Back through the outskirts of town. The light was definitely different now, afternoon sun slanting through the trees at a lower angle. Hours had passed while we sat in that booth. Hours I couldn't account for, couldn't quite remember the shape of.

My phone showed fourteen missed calls. Eight from Shelby. Six from Dad. Dozens of texts I couldn't bring myself to read.

"He's going to be angry," I said.

"Yes."

"He's going to want to stop me from going."

"Probably."

"What do I say to him?"

Cross turned onto my street. The houses looked the same as always. Small and tired and familiar. But something had changed. I had changed. I was looking at my childhood from the outside now, already half-gone.

"Tell him the truth," she said. "As much of it as he can hear."

Dad's truck was in the driveway. So was another car I didn't recognize. When we pulled up to the curb, the front door opened and Dad came out onto the porch.

He didn't look angry. He looked scared. Scared in a way I'd only seen once before, in the hospital waiting room when the doctors came to tell us Mom wasn't going to make it.

"Eli." His voice cracked on my name. "Jesus Christ, Eli."

He was down the porch steps before I could get out of the car, and then his arms were around me, tight enough to hurt. I braced for the flood of his emotions but it didn't come. Maybe I was too exhausted. Maybe some part of me was still closed off from the breakdown at the park.

"I'm sorry," I said into his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I should have called."

"Shelby came here. Said you collapsed at the park, said something was wrong with you, and then you just disappeared. I've been driving around for hours. I called the police, Eli. I filed a missing persons report."

"I'm okay. I'm okay, Dad."

He let go and stepped back. His eyes were red. When was the last time I'd seen him cry? Mom's funeral, maybe. The day we buried her and came home to a house that would never feel right again.

Then he saw Cross.

She'd gotten out of the car and was standing on the sidewalk, hands clasped in front of her. Professional. Calm. The kind of calm that came from having this conversation many times before.

"Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Vivian Cross. I'm a professor at a school for gifted students. I've been trying to recruit your son."

"Recruit him? He's been missing for hours. I filed a police report. And now he shows up in your car?" His voice was rising. "Who the hell are you and what have you been doing with my son?"

"I understand your concern completely. And I apologize for the distress this has caused. Eli needed immediate assistance that I was uniquely qualified to provide. Bringing him home in his condition would have caused more harm than good."

Dad's hands were clenched at his sides. I could see him fighting the urge to step between me and this woman, to shield me from whatever she represented.

"What condition? What's wrong with my son?"

Cross took a step forward. Just one. And something happened.

I almost missed it. A gesture, small and quick. Her hand moving in a way that didn't quite match her words. The air around us seemed to shift, to thicken, and then Dad's shoulders dropped. Just slightly. Just enough to notice if you were watching closely.

His voice came out different when he spoke again. Softer. Less certain.

"What kind of school is this?"

"Perhaps we should discuss this inside. Eli has some packing to do, and there are things you deserve to understand about your son's situation."

Dad blinked. Looked at me. Looked at Cross. Something was wrong with the way he was reacting, the anger draining away too fast, but I couldn't quite name what I was seeing.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, okay. Let's go inside."

I followed them up the porch steps with a sick feeling in my stomach.

At the door, Cross paused to let Dad go in first. Her hand brushed the doorframe as she passed, another small gesture that might have been nothing. Probably wasn't nothing.

Dad held the door for her. I saw his eyes drop to her hand as she passed. Just for a second. His face didn't change, but something behind it did. A stillness that settled over him like a mask.

Then he looked away and followed her inside like nothing had happened.

The kitchen felt smaller with three people in it. Dad sat at the table, hands flat on the surface, that strange softness still in his eyes. I sat across from him. Cross stood by the window, silhouetted against the afternoon light.

"Eli has a gift," Cross said. "A rare one. He can sense things about people, about places. Emotions. Memories. The residue of experiences that most people never notice."

"I don't understand."

"He's been experiencing this for some time without knowing what it was. The withdrawal you've noticed, the avoidance of physical contact, the incidents at school. These are all symptoms of an ability that's growing beyond his capacity to control."

Dad looked at me. Really looked, the way he used to when I was small and he was trying to figure out if I was lying about who broke the lamp.

"Is this true?"

"Yeah." My voice came out rough. "I've been feeling things. From people. When I touch them, sometimes just when I'm near them. Their emotions, their memories. It started small but it's getting worse. At the park today, with Shelby, I couldn't stop it. I saw everything she was feeling, everything she'd ever felt, and then I started feeling the ground underneath me, like the whole park was talking to me at once."

Dad was quiet for a long time. The kitchen clock ticked. The faucet dripped, the one we were supposed to fix together this morning.

"Your mother," he said finally. He stopped. Pressed his hand over his mouth like he was trying to keep words from escaping. When he spoke again, his voice was rough. "She used to talk about things like this. Feelings she had about people, about places. I never understood it. Thought maybe it was artistic, just how she saw the world."

My chest went tight. "You knew?"

"I didn't know anything. I suspected. She worried you'd be the same way. She hoped you wouldn't be, but she worried." He looked at me with wet eyes. "She used to ask you questions when you were little. About whether you felt things that didn't belong to you. You always said no."

"I was lying."

"I figured." He spread his hands on the table, palms down, like he was trying to steady himself. "She ran from something, your mother. A long time ago, before I met her. She never told me what. Just that she'd made a choice to live a different kind of life. A normal life."

I thought about Mom asking me those questions. Watching me carefully when I answered. The way she'd sometimes look at me with an expression I couldn't name, like she was seeing something in my face that scared her.

She'd known. The whole time, she'd known what I might become.

"This school," Dad said. He wasn't looking at Cross. Was carefully not looking at her. "It can help him? Teach him to control this?"

"Yes. That's what we do. We help young people with abilities like Eli's learn to live with what they are."

"And you want to take him today. Right now."

"The access point I'm using has a limited window. If we miss it, we'll have to wait several days for another opportunity. Given what happened this afternoon, I don't think waiting is wise."

Dad's jaw tightened. I watched him fighting something, some response that wanted to surface but couldn't quite make it through whatever fog Cross had put him in. Part of him knew this was wrong, knew he should be fighting harder, asking more questions. But that part kept slipping away.

"You'll be able to call," Cross said gently. "The school has phones. He can check in regularly. And first semester ends in December. He could be home for Christmas if that's what he wants."

"If that's what he wants." Dad repeated the words like he wasn't sure they belonged to him. Then he looked at me, and something of the real him pushed through. "Is this what you want, Eli? Going away to this school?"

I thought about the park. The grocery store. The months of pulling away from everyone, building walls out of distance because I didn't have any other kind. I thought about what Cross said would happen if I didn't learn control. Losing myself piece by piece. Drowning in other people's lives.

"I don't think I have a choice," I said. "What's happening to me is getting worse. If there's a place that can help, I need to go there."

Dad nodded slowly. He still had that foggy look, that strange compliance that didn't match the father I knew. But underneath it, I could see him trying. Trying to be supportive. Trying to let go of a son who was already half-gone to a world he couldn't follow.

"Go pack your bag," he said. "I want to talk to this professor alone."

I hesitated. Looked at Cross. Her face gave nothing away.

"Go on," Dad said. "I'm not going to fight with her. I just have some questions."

I went upstairs.

My room looked different now. The rabbit stain on the ceiling. The water-damaged corner where the roof leaked. The photo of Mom on my nightstand. All of it felt like it belonged to someone else, some earlier version of me who hadn't yet learned what he was.

I grabbed a duffel bag from the closet and started shoving clothes into it. Jeans. T-shirts. The one nice button-down I owned. Underwear and socks. A jacket for cold weather.

What else? Toothbrush. Phone charger. The beaten-up copy of a fantasy novel I'd been reading when all this started, a bookmark still stuck at page 143.

And the photo of Mom.

I picked it up and looked at her face. She was younger in this picture than I ever remembered her being. Smiling at something outside the frame. Happy in a way that seemed almost foreign.

She'd felt what I felt. She'd known what I was. And she'd chosen to run from it, to live a normal life, to raise me in a dying Ohio town far from whatever world she'd left behind.

Had she been protecting me? Or hiding me?

I put the photo in my bag.

When I came back downstairs, Dad was standing on the porch alone. Cross was waiting by her car.

Whatever they'd talked about, it was finished. Dad's face was closed off, unreadable. But some of the fog had lifted from his eyes. He looked more like himself now. More like my father.

"Eli." He pulled something from his pocket. Held it out to me.

His lucky coin. The old silver one he'd carried as long as I could remember. He never went anywhere without it.

"Dad, I can't take that."

"You can. You will." He pressed it into my palm, curled my fingers around it. His hands were rough, calloused from the factory years even though he mostly sat at a computer now. Dark brown against my lighter brown. My mother's color mixed with his. "Your mother gave this to me when we got engaged. For luck, she said. I want you to have it."

The metal was warm from his pocket. Worn smooth from years of being handled by those same rough hands.

"You believe her?" I asked. "About what I can do? About the school?"

"I believe something is happening to you that I don't understand. I believe that woman knows things about your mother that I don't, and I believe she's not telling me everything." He looked past me at Cross, still waiting by the car. "But I also believe you need to go. Whatever's out there, whatever your mother ran from, it found you anyway. Running won't work anymore."

"What if I can't do this? What if they can't help me?"

"Then you come home. No matter what. You come home and we figure out something else."

He pulled me into a hug. Tight. Brief. The kind of hug that was trying to say things words couldn't manage.

"I love you, kid. You know that, right?"

"I know. I love you too."

"Call me when you get there. And every week after. I don't care what time it is."

"I will. I promise."

He let go. Stepped back. His hand went to his pocket, the old habit, then stopped when he remembered the coin wasn't there anymore.

"Go on," he said. "Before I change my mind about letting you leave."

I picked up my bag and walked toward Cross's car.

At the curb, I turned back. Dad was standing on the porch with his arms crossed, watching. He looked like exactly what he was. A Black man in a dying Ohio town, watching his son leave for somewhere he couldn't follow. Three generations of Lawrence men had built lives in Millbrook. I was about to become the first one to leave.

The house rose behind him, small and tired, full of memories I was leaving behind.

He raised one hand. Not quite a wave.

I got in the car. Cross pulled away from the curb. And I watched my father get smaller in the side mirror until we turned a corner and he was gone.