Chapter 9

The first week was a blur of failure.

Echoes remained impossible. Professor Aldridge gave me separate exercises focused on reading people-traces instead of place-memory, which felt like being handed a coloring book while everyone else learned to paint. Blackwood's class was the one bright spot, all theory and history, nothing that required abilities I didn't have. The other classes fell somewhere in between.

Drift practice was its own particular hell. Coach Vasquez kept suggesting I try calling the field, probably hoping I'd figure something out. I didn't. Every practice ended with my teammates frustrated and me wondering why I was here at all.

On Thursday, I found myself outside Cross's office without quite deciding to go there.

The door was open. She looked up from a stack of papers and smiled.

"Eli. Come in."

Her office was smaller than I'd expected. Books lined the walls, and the desk was covered in papers, but there was order underneath the clutter. A small window looked out over the grounds. On the windowsill sat a collection of objects that hummed with visible residue: a smooth gray stone radiating faint warmth, a tarnished silver locket pulsing with something that looked like captured moonlight, a small glass bottle with something dark inside that seemed to move when I wasn't looking directly at it.

Tokens. Her personal collection. Each one saturated with experiences I couldn't begin to guess at.

"I've been getting reports," she said. "From Aldridge. From Vasquez."

"Bad ones?"

"Honest ones." She gestured to a chair. "Sit. Tell me how you're actually doing. Not the version you'd tell your father."

So I told her. The practice room and feeling people instead of places. Drift and calling directions I couldn't see. The mounting certainty that I'd been brought here by mistake, that whatever she'd sensed in me back in Ohio wasn't what she thought it was.

Cross listened without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.

"Do you know why I recruited you, Eli?"

"Because you thought I had potential?"

"Because you were surviving." She leaned forward slightly. "When I found you, you'd been living with an uncontrolled ability for years. Reading everyone around you. Feeling everything they felt. And you hadn't broken. You'd found ways to cope. To function. To get through each day."

"I wouldn't call what I was doing surviving."

"I would. I've seen what happens to people whose abilities emerge without support. They crack. They withdraw. They hurt themselves or others trying to make it stop." Her eyes were steady on mine. "You figured out how to carry it alone. That's rare. That's valuable."

"It doesn't feel valuable when I can't do what everyone else does."

"Everyone else learned to read places because that's what the curriculum teaches. You learned to read people because that's what you had access to." She smiled slightly. "The curriculum can be adjusted. The ability to survive without support? That's harder to teach."

I didn't know what to say to that.

"Aldridge mentioned she's developing alternative exercises for you. Blackwood says you're doing fine in his class." She tilted her head. "Give yourself time. The path forward might not look like what you expected, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then we find another path. That's what I'm here for." She stood, signaling the conversation was ending. "Come back next week. We'll check in again. And Eli? If anything else happens, anything that worries you or feels wrong, come to me directly. Don't try to handle it alone. You're not alone anymore."

I left feeling slightly better. Cross believed in me. That had to count for something.

Friday brought news about Drift teams.

First-years were being assigned to permanent practice squads. These would become official teams in second year, but the groupings were being established now. Five students per team, locked in for the rest of the year.

Dao brought the roster to breakfast.

"We're together," he said, sliding into his seat. "You, me, Sasha, Thaddeus. Someone named Marcus Holloway as our fifth."

"Who's Marcus Holloway?"

"Old family. Not as old as Thaddeus, but his grandmother was somebody important. Now the money's mostly gone and the name doesn't open the doors it used to." Dao didn't sound impressed. "I've seen him around. Talented, but lazy about it. Like he's too good to try."

"Maybe he is too good to try."

"Maybe. Or maybe he's just an asshole."

We met Marcus at afternoon practice. He showed up late, which didn't help first impressions. Average height, brown hair that needed cutting, moving with the kind of casual confidence that came from being good at things his whole life without ever having to work for it.

"So you're my team." He looked at each of us in turn. When he got to me, his expression shifted slightly. "You're the one who can't read the field."

"Word travels fast."

"It does when you fail that spectacularly." He said it without malice, like he was just stating a fact. Somehow that made it worse.

"Marcus." Thaddeus's voice had an edge I hadn't heard before. "Maybe introduce yourself before you start insulting people."

"I wasn't insulting anyone. I was describing reality." But he shrugged. "Fine. Marcus Holloway. Third-generation Zant. My grandmother was one of the most respected practitioners of her time, and now my family gets table scraps while people with half her talent run things. Anything else you need to know?"

"How about not being an asshole?" Dao suggested.

"I'll take it under advisement."

Practice that day was rough. Marcus was talented. Dao hadn't been wrong about that. He stepped into pools like he'd been born there, the shimmer flowing into him effortlessly while the rest of us had to concentrate just to draw at all. When he pushed, the air rippled with visible force, strong enough to freeze opponents for three or four seconds instead of the usual two.

But he didn't coordinate. He ran his own plays, chased his own angles on their flag, and let the rest of the team scramble to keep up.

When Coach Vasquez called us together to strategize, Marcus leaned against a post and checked his phone.

"You're not even listening," Sasha said.

"I don't need to listen. I know what I'm doing."

"This is a team sport. What you're doing doesn't matter if it doesn't work with what we're doing."

"Then get better at working with me."

I was reading him while they argued. Not deeply, not pushing, but even on the surface Marcus was complicated. The arrogance was real, but it was armor. Underneath it was bitterness. Grief. The particular pain of watching your family slide from significance into irrelevance and not being able to stop it.

His grandmother. Something was wrong with her. Not just wrong. She was dying. I could feel it radiating off him, this weight he was carrying around and refusing to acknowledge. Hospice, maybe. The slow terrible wait for someone you love to leave.

None of which made him easier to work with.

"Let's just finish practice," I said. "We can figure out team dynamics later."

Marcus glanced at me. For a second something flickered in his expression. Surprise, maybe, that the kid who couldn't read the field was the one calling for peace.

"Fine," he said. "Later."

Practice ended with our team in last place among the first-year squads. Marcus had the highest individual performance. We had the worst group coordination.

Walking back to the dorms, Dao vented. "He's going to tank us. All that talent and he won't use it for anyone but himself."

"He's grieving," I said.

"What?"

"His grandmother. She's dying. Hospice, I think. He's carrying it around and he doesn't want anyone to see."

The others looked at me. It was the first time I'd volunteered information from a reading without being asked.

"How do you know that?" Thaddeus asked.

"I felt it. When we were all together. The arrogance is armor. Underneath is pain."

Sasha nodded slowly. "That doesn't excuse his behavior."

"No. But it might explain it."

"So what do we do?"

"We give him time," Thaddeus said. "Maybe he'll come around."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we figure out how to work around him."

It wasn't much of a plan. But it was something.

Two weeks passed. November settled over Mudwick with gray skies and the smell of dead leaves. The trees had gone bare, their branches scratching at the windows when the wind picked up. Practice didn't get much better. Marcus showed up, ran his own plays, and left. The rest of us developed workarounds. Sasha created positioning strategies that didn't rely on my field-reading. Dao learned to anticipate where Marcus would go and stay out of his way. Thaddeus guarded our flag with quiet determination.

Then Coach Vasquez announced the first practice matches.

"First-year fall matches," he said. "No stakes except pride. Consider it a diagnostic." He consulted his clipboard. "There'll be spring matches too, once you've had more time to develop. These are just to see where everyone stands. Team assignments are posted. Matches begin tomorrow afternoon."

We were up against a squad with a reputation. Their caller was a girl named Priya Sharma who'd been training since she was eight. Old family, serious resources, the kind of preparation that made natural talent look lazy.

"We're going to get destroyed," Dao said at dinner.

"Probably," Sasha agreed. She didn't seem bothered by the prospect. "But we'll learn something."

Marcus wasn't at dinner. He'd been eating alone more often lately, or not eating in the dining hall at all. Whatever was happening with his grandmother, it was getting worse. I could feel it in the brief moments when we were near each other. A heaviness that hadn't been there before.

"Let's just focus on what we can control," I said. "Tomorrow, we play our best. Whatever happens, happens."

"That's very zen of you."

"I'm trying something new."

The match started at three the next day.

Both teams gathered at the Drift field. The saturation had been refreshed overnight, and the air shimmered with it. Pools bloomed across the terrain like heat mirages, some obvious and bright, others subtle ripples I could barely perceive. They shifted as I watched, a spot near midfield fading while another brightened near the left boundary.

Our flag snapped in the wind at our end of the field. Theirs at the opposite end. Simple rules. Grab theirs, get it back to our side. First capture wins.

Priya's team looked confident. They moved in sync even just walking to their starting positions. Two fast runners flanking wide, a guard settling near their flag, Priya herself scanning the field with the kind of focus that made my stomach drop. When her attention moved across the terrain, I could almost see what she was seeing. The pools lighting up for her like markers on a map.

We looked like what we were. A collection of people who'd been thrown together and told to make it work.

Coach Vasquez explained the rules, though everyone already knew them. Drawing from pools was allowed. Pushing opponents to freeze them was allowed. No drawing from teammates, no physical contact beyond incidental collisions.

"Capture the flag. Simple as that." He looked between the two teams. "Ready positions."

I walked to my position and did something I hadn't done all game.

I stopped trying to see the pools.

Instead, I focused everything on Priya. Not her body. Not her position. Her mind. The particular shape of her attention as it moved across the field.

The whistle blew.

Priya moved immediately, her voice cutting clear across the field. "Pool at seven! Runners go wide, draw and push through!"

Her team flowed like water. Both runners sprinted toward the boundaries, and I watched them hit pools I hadn't seen coming. The shimmer flowed into them, absorbed through their hands and arms, and they lit up. Glowing faintly with stored power as they curved toward our flag.

"Dao, left side!" Sasha called. "Thaddeus, hold position!"

Dao took off to intercept, but their runner was already charged. She extended her hand and the air rippled between them, a visible wave that hit Dao in the chest. He froze mid-stride, locked in place, his momentum dead. Two seconds. Three. By the time he could move again, she was past him.

Their other runner was coming from the right. Marcus moved to intercept without being asked, which was something, but he was running into a dead zone. I could see it now, sort of, the way the air looked flat and empty compared to the shimmering patches elsewhere. No power to draw from. When he tried to push, nothing happened. Their runner blew past him.

"Where are the pools?" Sasha shouted at me.

"I don't—I can barely—"

"Then watch Priya! Where's she sending them?"

I tried to focus on Priya across the field. Felt her attention sweep the terrain, felt her spot something near our flag that made her call out to her runners.

"They're converging! Both of them, coming to our flag from—"

Too late. Their faster runner had already reached it. She grabbed the fabric, pulled the flag free, and started sprinting back toward her side. Thaddeus got a push off but she'd drawn deep from a pool right next to our flag. Her block held. She kept running.

Dao chased her down but couldn't close the gap. She crossed back to her side with our flag in her hand.

The whistle blew.

"Point," Vasquez called. "Reset."

Our flag went back to its pole. The field's saturation shifted, pools fading and blooming in new positions. My stomach was a knot of frustration.

They scored twice more in the next ten minutes. Same pattern each time. Priya read the field, called her plays, and her team executed while we scrambled to keep up. I tried to track her, tried to feel where her attention was going, but by the time I processed it and relayed it to the team, they'd already moved.

Marcus was playing his own game, as usual. He'd gotten close to their flag once, drawn deep from a rich pool near their boundary, but their guard had been waiting. Hit him with a push that froze him long enough for the runners to get back on defense.

When Coach Vasquez called for a break at the halfway point, we were down three to nothing.

"This is pointless," Marcus said. He was barely winded, which felt like an insult. "We can't win with a blind caller."

"Shut up," Dao snapped.

"He's not wrong." I sat down on the grass and put my head in my hands. "I can't see what she sees. Every call I make is a guess, and by the time I make it, they've already moved."

"Then stop guessing." Sasha crouched down next to me. Her analytical mind was working, I could see it in her face. "You've been trying to do what Priya does. Read the field, find the pools, call the plays. But that's not your ability."

"I know that."

"So use your actual ability." She grabbed my shoulder, and I got a flash of her frustration, her determination, her refusal to accept that we were beaten. "Don't read the field. Read her."

"I've been trying to—"

"No. You've been trying to translate what she sees into something useful. Stop translating. Just read." She pointed across the field at Priya, who was talking strategy with her team. "Feel what she's going to do before she does it. Not where the pools are. What she's about to call. Her decisions, not the field."

I stared at Sasha. Then at Priya. Then back at Sasha.

"That's not how Drift works."

"Neither is having a caller who can't see the field. We're already breaking the rules just by existing. Might as well break them usefully."

Thaddeus looked uncertain. "Can that work? Reading the opposing caller?"

"I don't know. But what we're doing now isn't working." Sasha looked at me. "You can feel people's intentions, right? What they're about to do before they do it?"

"Sometimes. If I focus."

"Then focus on her. Only her. Feel what she's going to call before she calls it. Don't try to see the field through her. Just tell us what she's about to do."

It was insane. It went against everything I'd been taught about how Drift worked, which admittedly wasn't much. But we were losing anyway.

"Okay," I said. "Let's try it."

Second half.

Priya's team took their positions with the easy confidence of people who knew they'd already won. Just running out the clock now. One more capture and the match was over.

I walked to my position and stopped trying to see the pools. Instead, I focused everything on Priya. Not her body. Not her position. Her mind. The particular shape of her attention as it moved across the field.

The whistle blew.

Priya's eyes swept left. I felt her attention lock onto something, a pool blooming bright in her perception. The decision formed in her mind half a second before she opened her mouth.

"Left!" I called to my team. "Runners going left, there's a pool at ten o'clock!"

Dao adjusted instantly. Sasha adjusted. Even Marcus glanced at me with surprise.

Priya's team moved left. We were already there.

Dao met their runner at the pool. She'd expected to draw unopposed, charge up, blow past him. Instead he was waiting. They collided in a chaos of competing draws, both trying to pull from the same shimmer, and neither getting enough to push effectively.

"Block coming at two!" I called. I'd felt Priya's attention flicker there, felt her guard getting ready to move on Thaddeus. "Thaddeus, brace!"

Thaddeus braced. When their guard came at him, pushing with everything she had, the air rippled between them but he held his ground. She'd expected an easy freeze. Instead she bounced off his defenses and had to retreat.

Priya was looking at me now. Really looking. Trying to figure out what had changed.

I felt her decide to test something. Felt her attention move to a pool near the right boundary, a feint she was about to call to see if I'd follow.

"Feint right," I said. "She's testing us. Real play is coming center."

Sasha held our position. Priya's team went right, realized we weren't biting, and had to abort the play.

"How are you doing that?" Dao asked, breathing hard.

"I'm reading her. Not the field. Her."

"That's insane."

"Yeah."

But it was working.

The next ten minutes were different. We still weren't winning, but we weren't collapsing either. I called positions based on what I felt from Priya. Not where the pools were, but what she was about to do with them. Her decisions arrived in my awareness a half-second before she made them, and that half-second was enough.

And then something strange happened.

I was deep in Priya's perception, feeling her attention sweep toward a pool near midfield, when I saw it. Not through her. Directly. Just for a heartbeat, the shimmer at midfield wasn't something I was sensing secondhand from Priya's awareness. It was there, visible in my own perception, bright and pulsing with stored energy.

Then it was gone. Back to the fog I'd been living in since I arrived.

I blinked. Must have been adrenaline. Weird focus. The intensity of reading Priya so deeply that her perceptions bled into mine.

Nothing important.

Marcus started actually listening. Not every time, but more often than before. When I called that their runner was about to cut back toward our flag, he was there to intercept. When I warned about an incoming push, he drew from a pool nearby and blocked it.

Something was shifting in him. I could feel it. The armor was still there, but underneath it, something was waking up. Interest. Engagement. The unfamiliar sensation of being part of something instead of apart from it.

We were still behind. Three to nothing doesn't disappear because you start playing better. But we were making them work for every inch of the field.

With two minutes left, I felt something shift in Priya.

Frustration. Confusion. The match should have been over by now. She should have crushed us. Instead we were making her adapt, think, work harder than she'd expected to work.

She made a decision. I felt it form before she committed. An all-out assault on our flag. Both runners, her guard, everyone except Priya herself converging on Thaddeus. Overwhelm our defense. End it.

"They're coming," I said. "Everything they have. All of them on our flag."

"What do we do?" Sasha asked.

I looked across the field at Priya's flag. Unguarded. She was betting everything on finishing us right now.

"Thaddeus, hold as long as you can. Dao, Sasha, help him." I turned to Marcus. "You're fast. You're the best pusher we have. Can you get to their flag before they get to ours?"

He stared at me. The question hung in the air between us.

This was the moment. Trust him or don't. Believe he'd show up when it mattered or play it safe and lose anyway.

I could feel his hesitation. The part of him that wanted to run his own play, do his own thing, stay separate and protected. And underneath that, something else. Something tired of being alone.

"Their whole team is about to commit," I said. "Priya's not moving. She's staying back to call the play. But she can't guard and call at the same time. If you can get past her—"

"I can get past her."

"Then go. Now. Before they commit."

He went.

Marcus sprinted toward the opposite end of the field. Not the careful, tactical approach he'd been using all game. A dead run, everything he had, heading for the largest pool between him and their flag.

Priya saw him. I felt her attention snap to him, felt the decision tree branch in her mind. Call off the assault? No, they were too committed. Intercept him herself? She wasn't fast enough.

She shouted a warning but it was too late. Her team had already begun their attack.

They hit us like a wave. Both runners drawing deep, glowing bright with stolen power, pushing at Thaddeus from two angles at once. The air screamed with released force. Thaddeus staggered but didn't fall. Dao threw himself into the gap, taking a freeze meant for Thaddeus, his body locking up mid-motion.

Sasha was moving before I could call it. She intercepted their guard, both of them drawing from the same pool, fighting for enough power to push.

And Marcus ran.

He hit the pool at midfield and didn't slow down. The shimmer flowed into him as he passed through it, faster than I'd ever seen anyone draw, like he was drinking it in through his skin. He lit up. Not the faint glow of a normal draw. Bright. Blazing. Every bit of talent he'd been hiding behind his armor suddenly on display.

Priya moved to intercept. She was the last line of defense, the only thing between Marcus and their flag.

She pushed. The air rippled between them, a wave of force that should have frozen him in his tracks.

Marcus pushed back.

The collision was visible. Two waves of force meeting in the air, the shimmer distorting, the sound like fabric tearing. Priya's push was good. Marcus's was better. All that power he'd drawn, all that talent he'd been coasting on, finally unleashed.

Her push shattered. She staggered backward. And Marcus blew past her.

He grabbed their flag.

Behind me, Thaddeus finally went down. Their runners had broken through. One of them was sprinting toward our flag, and there was no one left to stop her.

But Marcus was already running. Flag in hand. Crossing the midfield line. Burning through whatever power he had left to stay ahead of the pursuit.

Their runner grabbed our flag. Started sprinting back.

It was a race now. Two people running in opposite directions. Whoever crossed first would win.

Marcus hit another pool without breaking stride. Drew everything it had. His legs were a blur.

Their runner was fast. Charged up. Gaining ground on her own goal line.

I couldn't breathe.

Marcus crossed first.

The whistle blew.

For a second, nobody moved. The field was frozen, everyone staring at the kid with the flag who'd just beaten them by three steps.

Then Coach Vasquez's voice cut through the silence.

"Match point, Lawrence squad. Final score, three to one."

Wait.

"We didn't win," Sasha said. "We only got one capture. They got three."

"Three to one," Vasquez repeated. "But Lawrence squad got the final capture. Sudden death rules. Last capture wins when time expires."

I looked at the clock. Zeros. We'd been playing sudden death for the last thirty seconds and nobody had told us.

"We won?" Thaddeus said. He was still on the ground where he'd fallen, looking dazed. "We actually won?"

"Apparently," Marcus said. He was breathing hard, still holding their flag, and his expression was something I'd never seen from him before.

He looked alive.

After the match, Priya found me.

"That was different," she said. "Second half. You weren't reading the field."

"No."

"You were reading me." Not a question. She'd figured it out.

"Yeah."

She considered this. "That shouldn't work."

"And yet."

"I don't know if I should be impressed or offended." But she was smiling slightly. "Good match. Next time I'll know to shield."

"Can you do that?"

"I have no idea. Guess we'll find out." She walked away to join her team, who were handling their loss with more grace than I'd expected.

The rest of my squad gathered around me. Dao clapped me on the shoulder. I braced for the flood, but it was just surface stuff. Excitement. Relief. The particular joy of winning when you expected to lose.

"That was insane," he said. "Reading the reader. Who does that?"

"Apparently I do."

"It was unorthodox," Sasha said, but she was smiling too. "Effective, though. We should analyze how it worked, see if we can refine the technique."

Thaddeus looked like he might cry. "We won. We actually won."

"Don't get too excited. It was one match."

"It was our first match. And we won it."

Marcus hung back from the celebration. When I caught his eye, his expression was complicated. Not friendly, exactly. But not hostile either.

"That call at the end," he said. "Sending me for their flag. That was a risk."

"Yeah."

"Could have backfired. If I'd been slower, they'd have captured first."

"But you weren't slower."

He was quiet for a moment. Something was moving beneath the surface. The armor he wore was cracked, just a little, and I could feel what was underneath. Not just grief anymore. Something newer. Fragile.

Hope, maybe. The dangerous kind.

"No," he said finally. "I wasn't."

He walked away before I could respond. But something had shifted. I'd trusted him with the crucial play, and he'd delivered. That meant something, even if he wasn't ready to admit it.

That night, the dining hall felt different.

People looked at us as we walked in. Not with the pity or dismissal we'd gotten before. With curiosity. With something that might have been respect.

Word had traveled. The squad with the blind caller had beaten one of the best first-year teams. Nobody knew exactly how, but they knew it had happened.

"Don't let it go to your heads," Sasha warned. "One win doesn't make us good."

"Let me enjoy this for five minutes," Dao said. "Then you can go back to keeping us humble."

I ate my dinner and listened to them argue about strategy for the next match. Marcus sat with us, which was new. He didn't say much, but he was there. Present. Part of the group in a way he hadn't been before.

Back in my room, I pulled out my phone. Three texts from Shelby I hadn't answered. The first from two days ago, a link to some video with the comment this guy looks exactly like mr. peterson if mr. peterson had a mullet and a banjo. Then yesterday: hello?? did you die?? And this morning: okay seriously starting to worry. even a thumbs up would help

The urge to tell someone about today was overwhelming. To share this with someone who'd understand how much it meant.

I almost texted her back.

My thumb hovered over her name. She'd be excited for me. She'd demand details. She'd make it feel real in a way that even the dining hall celebration hadn't quite managed.

But what would I say? Won a game today. Can't explain the rules. Can't explain how I won. Can't explain anything about my life anymore.

I started typing anyway. Hey. Good day today. Wish I could tell you about it.

I stared at the words. They weren't enough. They weren't anything.

I deleted them.

The victory felt lonelier than I'd expected. Not because my teammates didn't care, but because the one person I wanted to tell was someone I couldn't tell anything to. Shelby was still texting me memes, still asking how boarding school was going, still saving a space for me in a life I wasn't living anymore.

And I was becoming someone she wouldn't recognize.

I typed something shorter. not dead. just crazy busy. sorry for being the worst.

Her response came fast. you ARE the worst. but also glad you're alive. call me sometime? actual voice call? i miss your face

soon, I wrote back. Another lie to add to the pile.

I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. The traces of former students pressed gently against my awareness, their old anxieties familiar now. Almost comfortable.

Tomorrow there would be more classes I'd struggle with. More techniques I couldn't learn the normal way. More moments of feeling like I didn't belong in a world built for people who weren't like me.

But tonight, I'd won.

Tonight, I'd proven that different wasn't the same as broken.

It was enough. For now, it was enough.