GIFTED
Chapter 2: When Things Start to Slip
Alima merges into the stream of students in the hall after her Block Two Fiction Writing class. Why are most of them plodding along as if they have nowhere to be? Aren’t they hungry? After her two morning classes, Alima is starving. She angles into gaps between students, inching forward, but ends up stuck behind four girls in Level Nine turquoise strolling in a horizontal line and blocking the width of the stairs. Irritation kneads her empty stomach.
“Excuse me.” She squeezes by them at the bottom of the stairs. There is no way she was that oblivious in Level Nine.
She picks up her pace across the Yard and spots Nita at the Dining Hall entrance with Helena, whose latest hairstyle is striking even from a distance. Her shoulder-length black hair is plaited in hundreds of thin braids, each one decorated with colorful beads.
Alima puts her arms around Helena for a quick hug. “How do we wear the same uniform, but you manage to look stylish and I look like I’m wearing a bag?”
Helena fans her fingers by her shoulders and bangle bracelets jingle around her wrists. Her umber skin glows in the sunlight of the Yard, and her purple Movement Identifier is just a shade darker than her wide violet eyes. “Anything can be art. Even this monstrosity admin calls an outfit.” She links her arms around Nita and Alima. “And you don’t look like a bag. We are proud, glorious women, dazzling all around us.”
Once inside the circular foyer lined with buffets, Alima pulls free from Helena and scurries toward the desserts first. “I’ll meet you in the Hall.”
She skips the cookies, cupcakes, and pastries and goes straight for the pie. Apple today. Of all the flavors the Dining Hall serves, the apple is pretty solid, with gooey golden filling tinged cinnamon brown and a flaky crust glittered with sugar.
Now to find food that pairs well with apple pie.
A creamy chicken and vegetable casserole looks compatible, and a serving of potato wedges rounds out the meal. Nita and Helena aren’t in the queue to weigh and log their food for the daily allotment of complimentary lunch, so they must already be in the Hall.
Alima balances her tray and moves toward the arched opening that leads into the long, rectangular Dining Hall. The far wall is lined with tall windows that rise from the floor to the vaulted ceiling and illuminate the crowd. She peeks over dozens of students in front of her, scanning the polished wood tables, and spots the back of Helena’s head near the middle of the Hall.
“Hi, Alima.”
A tall, handsome boy in Level Eleven indigo falls into step to her right. His wide smile flashes perfect, pearly teeth set in a strong, sculpted jaw. But the disarming good looks clash against his sly amber eyes.
“Hi, Teo.” She avoids his gaze, grips her tray, and moves away.
“How was your break?”
“Fine.”
He steps closer. She edges more to her left. She bumps the wall of the foyer, but in a moment, she’ll be in the open space of the Dining Hall where she can lose him.
Her legs freeze in place, forcing her to stop. Teo steps in front of her, his left hand pointed at her legs. He taps his Mover pendant and grins.
Her pulse quickens; Gifted students aren’t supposed to use their abilities on their peers, but Teo Marenzy never remembers this rule applies to him. She wriggles, but her legs are stiff, as if encased in cement. How long is he going to hold her here? How is no one noticing this? For the second time today, she wishes she was a Sensor and could make Teo feel the revulsion and fury swelling inside her.
All the sass that serves her with Sam shrivels up around this boy. It always has. Her brain feels paralyzed. He is all easy smiles and charm, but something disturbing lurks beneath the pretty surface. Only his sharp eyes hint at it. Alima has no desire to find out what it might be.
Teo lowers his hand, his alluring smile still plastered in place. Her legs flex.
“Yeah? Mine was good too. What did you do?” He leans his hand against the wall and positions his tall, muscular body at an angle around her, blocking her view into the Hall. If she tries to step forward or around him, she’ll bump into him, which he is probably hoping for. If she backs up, she’ll crash into the current of students funneling from the buffet into the Hall. Of course, if she moves at all, his Movement can yank her back.
“Teo, can you let me by, please?”
He leans closer, his eyes fixed on her in a way that makes her feel like she is shrinking. “I want to hear about your break.”
“I want to eat lunch. My friends are waiting for me.” Nita and Helena are too far away to notice what is happening, and she isn’t sure how Teo will react if she yells for them.
“So, let’s eat lunch,” he says. “My friends and I have plenty of room at our table.”
“No, thanks.” Alima moves to go around him. He grabs her arm. She jerks back, but his grip doesn’t yield. The dishes on her tray rattle. “Please let go of me.”
Teo releases her, holding his hand up in surrender, but doesn’t take his other hand from the wall. “Sorry. I forgot how jittery you are. Here, let me help.” He lifts his free hand, and her lunch tray floats out of her grip and over her head.
“Stop!” Alima reaches up, but the tray levitates higher. She brings her arms back down, and he lowers the tray. She doesn’t reach for it again; she won’t let him play with her like a cat jumping for a toy. “Give it back.”
He raises the tray a few inches higher. “Why are you so grouchy? I invited you—”
“Flying food!”
From behind her, Sam Opari barrels between them, grabs her floating tray out of midair and sprints into the Dining Hall.
“Sam!” Alima trails behind him until he stops near her friends’ table, holding the tray over his head.
“Do you want it back?” he asks.
“Obviously.”
“What’ll you give me for it?”
Before Alima can think of a response, her tray pops up out of Sam’s reach and floats down to their table.
Helena smirks at him. “Go away,” she orders.
Alima sits down across from Helena, and Sam laughs. “No argument from me. I can’t handle you both at once.”
He ruffles Alima’s hair again and walks away. She throws one of her potato wedges at him; it smacks the back of his head and falls to the floor. He spots the projectile, laughs at her, then saunters over to join a table of other boys.
Alima rings her hands over her tray. “He is so annoying. It’s like his brain stopped developing during Level Six.” A few of her potato wedges scattered off the plate, but her pie is safe, which is what really matters. She combs her fingers through her hair, gathering it off her shoulders. “Good grief, I wish I hadn’t worn my hair down today.”
“Do you want me to braid it?” Helena extends her hand toward the discarded potato wedge; it flies up to her waiting napkin.
“Yes.”
“Turn around.” Helena glides her fingers over Alima’s hair, and it weaves itself into a long, thick braid. Her Movement holds the braid steady while she ties it off with one of her own hair bands.
Alima’s neck and field of vision feel gloriously light now. “Thank you.”
Helena picks over her lunch. “Don’t let Sam get to you. He’s harmless. He’s like an over-excited toddler — he just wants you to play with him and give him a snack.”
“Easy for you to say. He’s not going to be tormenting you every day. I have two classes with him this year.”
“Speaking of tormentors.” Nita lifts her fork toward the Hall entrance. “Hels, your favorite teacher is here.”
Alima and Nita follow Helena’s gaze over her shoulder to a tall, brawny man walking toward the long, elevated staff tables at the far end of the Hall. Several students turn or cringe back from the echoing clack, clack, clack of the polished leather shoes that always warn of his approach.
Every time Alima sees Professor Darius Dane in passing he looks more and more like a statue come to life. His gray suit is unnaturally crisp, as if it repels wrinkles all on its own, and his clipped black hair looks more shallacked than merely styled in place. His sparkling purple Mover pendant looks completely out of place against his stiff, monotone exterior.
He glances at Alima as he passes their table. His features are rigid, his icy blue eyes sharp and severe.
Once he is out of ear shot, Helena releases a sigh. “Thank goodness I don’t have him for Movement Control this year. Last year felt like a prison sentence.”
“At least he’s never made you cry,” Alima says. “I heard every year he makes at least one student in each of his classes cry. Maybe he likes you.”
“Professor Dane doesn’t like anyone,” Helena says. “I just know how to stay out of his way and keep my mouth shut.”
“You? Keep your mouth shut? Impossible.” A lanky boy with wavy brown hair and warm beige, chiseled features plops down in the seat next to Helena and plants a kiss on her cheek. A Sensor pendant dangles around his neck, the pop of blue accenting his cornflower eyes.
Alima smiles. “Hi, Daylan.”
Daylan Brig grins at Alima from behind the kiss.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Helena says when he pulls away. “You can’t pick on me about Professor Dane. Your Sensing professors are so nice. They’re all worried about your feelings. Mine just want us to shut up and lift!” She levitates the table and the dishes clatter. Alima and Nita squeal and scatter their hands to settle the dishes as Helena sets the table down.
“Darius Dane doesn’t believe in feelings,” Daylan says. “He pumped them all out to make room for more muscle.” Alima and Nita giggle. Helena grins at her boyfriend.
Alima glances at the staff table, where Professor Dane sits alone, away from the other professors. He stares ahead, his expression aloof and stern even as he eats.
His gaze shifts to Alima. She averts her eyes, hoping he’ll assume she is glancing around rather than staring at him.
Daylan snatches a grape off Helena’s plate and pops it in his mouth. “You still want to meet up after school?”
“Yup. And now you owe me snacks.”
Daylan grins and steals another grape. They share a quick kiss, and he returns to another table.
“Do you and Daylan ever get tired of being so adorable?” Nita teases.
“You talking about me?” Two muscular hands grip Alima and Nita’s shoulders. “I heard ‘adorable’ and figured that was my cue.”
Alima sighs through her nose. Not again.
“Teo, let go.” She rolls her shoulders, trying to escape his fingers biting into her collarbone.
“Why are you eavesdropping on private conversations?” Helena’s narrowed eyes are fixed on Teo, all her humor gone.
“It’s not private if you’re talking loud enough for everyone to hear,” Teo says. “Besides, Alima and I were talking first.”
“You’re forgetting the part where I repeatedly tried to walk away.” Alima needs to get rid of him. Nita is paralyzed over her plate, but Helena’s nostrils are already flared.
Teo chuckles. “What’s with the attitude?”
“It’s because they don’t want to talk to you,” Helena says.
“Don’t be a nag, Helena.” Belton Koro, Teo’s best friend, appears at his side. Alima shuts her eyes and inhales calm. Any chance of diffusing the confrontation just got much more difficult. Belton isn’t good about keeping his mouth shut, especially for a Middling.
“What’s the matter?” Belton continues. “Got your hair wound so tight, it’s making you grouchy?” Belton swats Teo’s shoulder and laughs at his own joke.
Alima winces.
Helena’s eyebrows fly up. “What’s the matter with you, Belton? Got your head shoved so far up Teo’s ass, you can’t see when you’re not wanted?”
Teo snorts, but Belton’s expression flips to fury. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“You can’t stop me.”
Belton steps towards her. Helena raises one hand. With the other, she taps her Identifier. “Think very carefully about your next move, Belton. I’d rather not get in trouble on our first day back, but I would also love a reason to embarrass you in front of the whole school.”
Belton glares at the Identifier, and Alima braces herself to stand up between them. Helena’s temper tends to make her creative with her Movement; whatever she is considering doing to Belton, it won’t be pretty, and it will attract attention.
“Teo, remove your hands from the girls’ shoulders.”
Helena’s eyes widen. The deep, commanding voice sends shivers down Alima’s spine. Professor Darius Dane stands beside their table, glowering at Teo.
Alima has never had an actual conversation with this infamous professor, but she finally understands the tension he inspires. He towers over them without a hint of patience or subtlety in his expression. Belton squeezes closer to Teo, edging away from Professor Dane, who is making no attempt to respect their personal space.
Teo’s hands slide down to his sides. His cocky swagger folds. “I was just joking around.”
Alima can’t decide whether she is impressed or alarmed that even the most awful boy in school is terrified of Professor Dane.
“I’ve told you many times, you’re not funny,” Professor Dane says. “And I’m not stupid. Go away.”
Without another word, they obey.
Professor Dane looks at Nita and Alima, then Helena. “Miss Chrystie, you are aware of the Gifted Code of Conduct regulations about using Movement around school. If I see you playing so irresponsibly with school property again, I’ll report you to the disciplinary team.” He walks away.
Alima looks at Helena, whose breathing is shallow and labored. “What did he–”
“The table.” Helena spits the word. “He must have seen me. And if he heard us making fun of him, I’m screwed, because he’s head of the Movement department.”
Nita touches Helena’s arm. “He’d walked away by that point. And Daylan made the joke, not you.”
“And he made Teo leave,” Alima says. “He wouldn’t have done that if he was mad at you.”
“Yes, he would,” Helena says. “He’ll do anything that gives him a reason to yell at somebody. He’s just–” She stops and glances around, as if Professor Dane might materialize at any moment. “Anyway, yeah, at least he took care of Teo.” Her anxious expression shifts with disgust. “That guy is obscene. The disciplinary team should have him tailed around campus.”
Alima’s gaze drifts to the dessert buffet, where Professor Dane stands by himself. He chooses two cookies, and students scuttle out of his way as he leaves the Hall.
She turns back to Nita and Helena. She has no reason to worry over Professor Dane; as a Middling, she’ll never be enrolled in one of his classes. But she can’t decide if that certainty is comforting or disappointing.
* * *
The bells hanging over the door of Novel Ideas bookstore jingle as Alima enters for her after-school shift. Cheerful, pale-yellow walls lined with tall wooden shelves and the familiar smell of new books and fresh paper give her energy a gentle lift. She calls hello to her fellow employees, and not a single Identifier twinkles back.
She weaves around the standing displays on the sales floor to the stationary section. Today is payday, so the twins will be expecting their “surprise” stickers. She selects a pack of shiny peacock stickers for Mallie and a set of cartoon waffles with goofy facial expressions for Blaze.
The store owner, Mr. Porren, appears from the back office and sets two large boxes on the checkout counter. He is a plump, older man with thick hair and a thicker beard, once bright blond but now peppered with gray.
He rips packing tape off the boxes and smiles at Alima’s new uniform. “Indigo looks good on you. I can’t believe little Alima Edevani is already Level Eleven. How was your first day?”
“Fine. I have some interesting classes this year.”
Mr. Porren nods. “I’m sure you’ll be excellent in all of them. You always are. Once you check these in, you can handle the register. I’ve got Beryl and Keenan working on some new displays, and I need to review this month’s budget.”
Alima lovingly lifts one of the hardcover books out of the box. It’s a fantasy, a genre that should only ever be published in hardcover. The solid binding with its intricate, fanciful artwork promises adventure, mystery, and excitement within the crisp white pages. She checks the titles against the delivery list and sets them on the shelves, slipping into a familiar meditative rhythm that soothes her normally rampant brain.
The second box reveals new non-fiction copies, and her fingers pause over one title: Moving Matters: Differentiating the Physical Gift for Solids, Liquids, and Gases. She never buys books on Gifts — it would be a foolish waste of money — but Mr. Porren doesn’t mind that she flips through them. Last week, she’d browsed one about Whispering to underwater plants and animals that was weirdly fascinating.
She rings up her sticker purchase, then perches on a stool behind the checkout counter and skims through the Movement book’s introduction, careful not to bend the pages or crease the spine, until the bell over the door jingles, announcing a customer. Alima looks up.
A familiar head of curly, fire-red hair bobs like a beacon around the stationary section. Alima’s shoulders slump.
She is in no mood to deal with Malorie Kinnets and her minions. But Mr. Porren is still nowhere in sight, and the other clerks are helping customers, so she’s stuck. Malorie comes into view around the display, walking at an assertive pace that suggests she doesn’t care in the slightest if the minions behind her follow.
The minions, Jettie and Kya, glance at Alima, then look at each other and giggle. Alima busies herself tidying up the already pristine checkout counter.
Malorie brings a plain notebook and a set of blue and black pens to the counter.
“Hi, Malorie.” Alima forces a pleasant, customer-service tone as she rings up the items. “Is this all for today?”
Malorie tosses her money on the counter. “Yes.” An Identifier for Sensing dangles beside one for Movement on the chain around Malorie’s pale neck, as she is one of a handful of Academy students who possess multiple Gifts. Fate must have a sick sense of humor, giving grumpy Malorie Kinnets the ability to detect and control emotions.
The minions join Malorie, but Alima doesn’t greet them. If she doesn’t talk, maybe they’ll leave sooner.
Jettie flips her long, thick black hair over her shoulder. “Hi, Alima.”
“Hi, Jettie.” Alima offers Malorie her change, but Malorie is staring at the Movement book.
Her sharp, turquoise eyes flash at Alima. “Are you reading that?”
“I’m looking at it.”
“Why? You’re not Gifted.”
The truth shouldn’t sting quite so much, but Alima’s brow quirks. “So? We don’t have any ancient duchesses or highway bandits in town either, but our Historical Romance section is the most popular in the store.”
“I didn’t know this shop sold used books.” Jettie reaches across Malorie and picks up the book. “Are your other customers aware that you read these ahead of time?”
Alima’s cheeks warm. “I don’t read them ahead of time. People always flip through books.”
“Customers do.” Jettie opens the book and fans the pages with her thumb. “Because they’re deciding whether to spend their money. If you were selling makeup, would you use some and put it back on the shelf?” She drops the book at the far end of the counter, well beyond Alima’s reach.
Annoying.
Alima blinks from the book to Jettie. “That’s not even remotely the same—”
“If you’re planning to apprentice as a business owner, you should be studying that instead of daydreaming about stuff that doesn’t apply to you.” Malorie takes her change and her bag.
Alima stands stiff and watches the girls leave. She should have snatched the book back from Jettie and ordered them out of the store. It’s a pleasant little fantasy, but she would never have the courage to take on all three of them so directly. Sarcastic one-liners are one thing, but Jettie and Kya’s critical giggles always make her insides turn to jelly. And Malorie isn’t worth the trouble. She’s just mean.
Alima sighs and reaches for the book.
It’s gone.
Her eyes dart over the counter. Did the minions steal it?
Her other hand bumps something beside her.
The book, back in the same spot she’d been reading it. Her gaze flits to the counter edge and back.
One of them must have Moved it back without her noticing. Stupid of her to let them distract her. They could have walked out with it.
Mr. Porren returns from the office with another box. “Any sales? I heard the bell.”
“Just one. Some writing supplies.” Alima crosses the floor and puts the Movement book on its shelf.
He pats the top of the box. “More inventory to check in. Also, your mother called.”
Another punt to her nervous system. She’s lost track of how many times that has happened today. It can’t be healthy. Her mother rarely calls her at work, and it is never a good sign.
“Oh?” Her tone is convincingly casual.
“She said you need to come home straight after your shift. Something about feet?” Mr. Porren’s brow furrows. “Everything alright?”
Alima forces her mouth into a smile. “Yup. Everything’s just dandy.”
* * *
The sun is midway through its descent into evening when Alima exits Novel Ideas, so she slows her pace and lets her favorite time of day distract her from ruminating about the lecture waiting for her at home. Sunrise and sunset are when Follin’s beauty comes alive, and her walk provides time to admire her historic hometown. Brilliant shades of rosy-orange gleam off the windows and decorative iron railings of the city’s historic buildings. The pastel shades, trademarks of Mirnese architecture, and the setting sun create the sensation of walking through a painting.
She cuts through an alley near Novel Ideas that leads to a large, cobbled space dotted with cherry trees: University Square. She shouldn’t stare at the University; as a Middling, she can’t enroll at any of the three ancient institutions in Mirn where the best Gifted students hone their skills for the most demanding, difficult professions. Roughly half of Mirn’s citizens are Gifted, but of those, only thirty percent meet the steep standards for acceptance.
Alima keeps to the far side of the Square past the Maernosti Museum. There is no point to her fascination with the University. She has lived in Follin all her life and never even seen inside it. The smooth, white marble walls around the campus stand high and wide, the main doors always locked and guarded. The administration should just hang a banner that reads, “Keep out!”
A hazy memory of her accident floats back as she crosses the traffic circle toward quiet neighborhoods of cozy homes with small, fenced gardens snuggled in between. After three blocks, her house comes into view on the corner: a two-story cottage with white-washed exterior and black shutters. Beside the house, red, pink, and yellow rose bushes her father planted years ago fill their garden.
Her feet drag on the sidewalk, and she grips her book bag’s strap for support. How upset is her mother by now? She may have calmed down, or she could be more upset after hours of worrying. A lot depends on how she found out. The Academy Healing Center may have called her, but the twins are more likely suspects. They’re sweet, but their seven-year-old explanations tend to be too blunt to minimize reactions.
Alima pauses at the corner across from her house to take a breath and fix a relaxed smile to her face, setting her tone for the confrontation. Nearby, an old woman wearing a Whispering pendant hobbles down her walkway to scold a cat loitering on her lawn with a dead bird. The cat replies with an answer only the Whisperer can understand, though judging from her expression, Alima guesses it is not particularly polite.
“Mimma, I’m home!” Alima slips off her shoes and sets her bookbag on the living room sofa, where the twins are watching cartoons on the wall telescreen. The scent of grilled onions and roasting meat wafts from the kitchen. A good sign; her mother can’t be in too bad of a mood if she is still preparing one of her typically excellent dinners.
She hides the stickers behind her back and approaches the twins. “Guess what I have.”
They shoot upright, their faces alight with anticipation. “It’s sticker day!”
She tosses the packets forward to a duet of “Yay! Thank you, Lima!”
“You’re welcome.” She turns toward the kitchen and jolts back. “Cripes, Mimma.”
Her mother, Sonora Edevani, stands with her hands on her hips. Stiff eyebrows, wide eyes, hurried breath through nostrils that aren’t flared. She is worried, but not mad. Not yet, anyway.
“What’s this the twins tell me about a car accident?” Sonora says.
Alima shrugs; downplaying is usually an effective defense. “It was nothing. I’m fine. Public Safety handled it, and the healari at school fixed my toe—”
“What happened to your toe?”
Alima winces. Stupid mistake. “The car… hit it. But barely. And the healari took care of it–”
“Sit,” Sonora commands, pointing at an open space on the sofa.
Alima sighs but slumps over and plops onto the cushions.
“Sock.”
She removes her sock and holds up her foot. Sonora squats and inspects the toes.
“See?” Alima says. “It’s fine.”
Sonora shakes her head. “Why didn’t you have the Academy call me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry. And I didn’t want to miss anything on the first day because some idiot can’t drive.”
“You got hit by a car. I want you to see Healari Ovell tomorrow.”
“Why?” Alima points at her foot. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“What about other injuries?”
“I don’t have any other injuries. The Mover guy stopped the car before it hit me anywhere else. I promise, I feel fine.” Apart from straining to keep control of her own and Sonora’s stress levels.
Sonora presses her palms to her knees and stands, seemingly satisfied if not fully convinced. “Fine. But I’m driving you from now on.”
“Mim–”
“That intersection is dangerous!”
Alima pulls on her sock. This is the point when her father would have stepped in and somehow soothed Sonora’s worries. He would have listened patiently, respected the source of the fear, but then always knew just the right thing to say to settle it. Alima never learned the trick. Maybe that was his own unique Gift.
“I’ll be more careful. We’ll go slower through the intersection.”
“It wasn’t Lima’s fault, Mimma,” Blaze says, not taking his eyes from the telescreen. “The man went too fast around the circle.”
Alima extends her arm toward Blaze as evidence to her case. “And if you drive us, it’ll take forever with the morning traffic on Market Street. We can walk there in ten minutes because we can cut through Uni Square. I don’t want you to risk being late to work.” Alima softens her facial expression into something hopefully resembling reassurance and patience. “I’ve got this, Mimma. Please, trust me.”
Sonora’s lips tighten, her anxiety struggling against logic. “Lima, do you understand how scared I was when the twins told me? You three are the most precious things in my life. If I lost you…”
There is a quiver of old grief in her voice. Guilt pinches Alima’s stomach.
Sonora blinks away moisture in her eyes and pats Alima’s shoulder. “I appreciate how much you help with the responsibilities around here, but I have to be able to trust you to be safe and honest with me.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry.” She sets her hands on her hips. “You don’t keep secrets from me about your safety. Understood?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Mim.” Alima meets Sonora in a hug, then leans back and gives a pleading look. “So… I can still walk us to school?”
Sonora huffs a laugh and walks to the kitchen. “Fine. But be more careful at that circle.”
Alima takes a victory smile behind Sonora’s back. “Do you need help with dinner?”
“Everything’s ready except the salad.”
“I’ll do that. I just need to change.” Alima jogs up the stairs to her bedroom, pausing to kiss her fingers and touch them to the photo of her father hanging beside the door inside her room. She takes off her Academy uniform and changes into a loose t-shirt and leggings, then hangs up her uniform in the closet. Next year, she will finally receive the purple shirt of a Level Twelve pending graduate. She runs her fingers over her previous years’ Academy shirts, a neat, folded rainbow at the back of her closet. Her hand lingers on her favorite: the tiny, multi-colored puzzle patterned shirt for new Level One students. A pang of melancholy accompanies the red shirt: Level Three, the year she learned she wasn’t Gifted.
Alima shakes her head, scattering the memory, and heads back downstairs.
“Blaze!” Sonora’s voice projects from the kitchen. “Come get these books off the table and take them to your room. I’ve asked you twice already.”
“One more minute, please!” Blaze’s eyes are glued to the telescreen. “The show is almost done!”
“Blaze Edevani, I’m counting to three–”
Blaze pops up and darts to the kitchen. He reappears clutching a stack of children’s books and sprints to the stairs.
“Slow down, bud.” Alima steps aside and he races past her. On the third step from the top, his socked foot slips on the hardwood.
Fear sparks down Alima’s arms. Time slows as Blaze’s feet come out from under him, his arms flail, and the books crash to the floor.
A vision flashes of blood, snapped bones, her sweet brother’s eyes streaming with tears… or worse, empty and dark.
Everything around her goes hazy except for his one foot barely touching the floor. She darts up and reaches out, prepared to throw her body under him to break his fall.
Blaze hovers, teetering at an impossible angle. Then he tilts forward, his other foot comes down, and he balances safely.
He flashes Alima an anxious glance. “Good catch, Lima. Thanks!” He collects the books and walks up the remaining steps.
Alima looks down at her hands. She turns them over, studying them, as if seeing them for the first time.
Because she is certain they did not catch her brother.