Flowers, then fruit. The vegetables answered her hands. That strange force in her palms was her plant-growth ability.
More powerful now. More restless. Almost wild. Yes, wild.
Her mental strength was the reason. Like a balloon already full, with twice that much air suddenly forced in on top.
It needed release. So did she. She had to master the ability before her own immense mental power turned against her.
In her mind, she crouched beside the vegetable patch. Who would have thought she'd learn to grow vegetables?
Awareness withdrawn. An alarm for three a.m. She set down the phone and slept.
Time slipped away. When she woke, it felt as though she'd only just closed her eyes.
Jacket, cap, mask. She rode the scooter out, the night air against her face clearing some of the fog.
The truck waited outside the community. She found a camera blind spot, stored the scooter, and drove to the coastal warehouse.
Every light green. No delays. Half an hour later, she climbed out, checked that no one was around, and unlocked the doors.
Table and chair still in the corner. Fan gone. The coal dealer had moved out. She shut the doors behind her.
At the back, she found the electrical panel and cut the power. No working camera now. She could relax.
A sweep of her hand, and the warehouse's contents were gone. She checked for anything missed, opened the doors, and left. Nearly two hours for the round trip.
Almost six by the time she got home. She ordered breakfast, more than usual. Her last day here.
Phone down. Back to sleep.
At nine thirty, the doorbell rang on schedule. Large takeout containers. Each order held enough for ten people.
Once everything arrived, she kept one breakfast out. The rest went into her space.
Shrimp and grits, sauteed greens, braised chicken, and a fried egg. A satisfying meal.
Up to the second floor. A key pressed hard into her palm. She stood outside a door for a long time before finally opening it.
Ten days without cleaning. A little dust on the nightstand. She hardly ever came in here. Too many reminders. Too much to miss.
A family portrait on the cabinet. A little girl smiling, dimples round and deep. Her father held her in one arm, his other around her mother.
Photographs behind it. One year old, then every year through thirteen. After they were gone, no one took pictures of her anymore.
She opened the drawer. The tears came before she could stop them. A kindergarten poetry-recital certificate.
Third place in an elementary-school marathon.
An honorable mention from a seventh-grade art contest. She'd just begun wanting to win everything then. These prizes hadn't seemed worth keeping.
Mom and Dad had kept them all. Every small piece of her growing up. She sank to the floor, back against the bed, and traced the two figures in the photograph.