“We’ve got another one here, Frac.”

I snort awake, Ezekiel’s clear voice ringing through my ears. The chair I’d been leaning back in almost tips, and I barely manage to catch myself, shifting my weight and slamming the front two legs down with a loud thud. As Zeke brings the client into the room, he shoots me a look, somewhere between concern and exasperation.

Not that I blame him. It’s almost six in the morning and I haven’t gone home yet. Usually I stay around until five, that way I have time to head back home before the city really starts waking up. And yet, here I am, taking on any case I can manage.

The client is an older gentleman, somewhere in his late forties. Salt-and-pepper hair is greasy, and his beard is unkempt. He wears flannel stained with oil. Mechanic, more than likely. Someone who works with his hands, and judging by the cast on his arm, I can tell what exactly he wants from me.

“Did you already go to the doctor for this?” I ask him.

“No, a friend helped me with the cast at the time.” Not a good sign. Back-alley cast work could be dangerous. I doubt the bones were set properly, and if that’s the case, more damage down the line is more than likely. I give him a stern look, raising both brows in question, a disappointed parent.

“Alright,” I say, “First thing’s first, buddy; we’ve gotta get the cast off.”

“You can’t do it with it on?”

“Afraid not. Material’s too restrictive.”

The mechanic looks at me in disbelief. I give him a hard stare in return, the corners of my mouth drawn downward slightly, forming a half-scowl.

“Alright then,” he responds, “Do your work.”

I start by removing the cast. It’s an arduous process, one that requires more precision than I’ve ever been used to. Every so often the mechanic winces, or grunts, and it reminds me to be a little slower with the process. After the cast is gone, I do my best to feel for the damage without causing too much more.

Zeke always told me I work too aggressively to be a true doctor. My grip is too firm, or I move too suddenly, or my bedside manner just isn’t the best. He’s right, of course; I don’t have the kind of care or patience for real medical work. The mechanic’s complaints simply remind me of that fact, and I have to force myself to be even more careful than I’m already being.

“Alright, I’ve found it,” I finally say, holding the arm in precise locations, “Ready? Three, two—”

There’s a sickening crack, and I feel the fractured bones shift unpleasantly under my grip. The mechanic cries out, the worst noise yet out of the ones he’s made, and he instinctually attempts to pull out of my grip. I hold onto him for just a few seconds more, to make sure the healing works in its entirety, and then let go. He pulls his arm back, cradling it as the soreness goes into effect.

“Try moving your fingers,” I tell him. His brain starts functioning enough that he does so, and I watch the pain ebb away from his expression, replaced by wonder.

“You’re a miracle worker,” he says.

“Mm, no, I just have a knack for fixing broken shit.”

I grin at him, humored. Zeke leans against the doorway, and even with the mask over the lower half of his face, I can tell he’s smiling. The mechanic looks to him and fishes out his wallet, counting the bills for his visit.

“Oh—Don’t pay me,” he says, “I just fixed the surface injuries. You should give the money to her, though.” He nods toward me, and I give him a slight, thankful nod as the mechanic hands me the money and stands up to leave.

“Thank you, hope you don’t come again,” I remark. He lets out a snort, and then he’s out the door.

Zeke turns to look at me fully. His look is concerned but pointed enough that it makes me shift uncomfortably under his gaze. There’s just something about the way he looks at you that makes you think you’ve done something wrong or questionable, even if you haven’t. There’s a moment of silence between the two of us, but it’s broken by a heavy sigh.

“It’s past six,” he says, “You should go home.”

“What if another break comes in?” I ask.

“Unlikely. Go, rest, see your wife,” Zeke responds.

He’s smiling as he shoos me out of the cramped pseudo-office and into the newly waking world of New Portudine.

I get back home at around six forty-five.

Ever since I got married and moved in with Delilah, we’ve been living more comfortably. It’s a relatively small house in a quiet cul-de-sac, with light brown siding and a dark shingled roof. The gutters are clean, the doorstep has a welcome mat, and the mailbox has Mrs. and Mrs. Krauss painted on the side. A few years ago, I wouldn’t have wanted something so domestic, but ever since I’d gotten with Delilah, I’d been relishing it more and more.

I open the door. The living room is painted off-white, with dark brown upholstery on the furniture. Delilah is laying on the couch, pillow under her head, throw blanket covering most of her. She looks at me with her beautiful brown eyes, and my heart melts almost immediately at the sight of her.

“Hey,” she says, her voice quiet and slightly raspy from sleep. She sits up and rubs at her eyes, letting out a yawn and stretching afterward.

Compared to me, she’s tiny. Delilah’s roughly five-four compared to my six-even, with a petite frame and brown skin. Her hair, dark and in loose curls, is askew in a bedhead. Her pajamas are a light blue, satin and striped. I swear those are the most expensive articles of clothing she has, but if she’s comfortable, so am I.

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“Hey hon,” I respond, “How long did you stay up?”

“I don’t know,” she answers, “What time is it?”

“Almost seven.”

“I got about four hours, then.”

“You didn’t have to stay awake for me,” I comment, walking over to pull her into a hug. She hugs me in kind, and I melt into the contact, the weight of what today is feeling just a little bit lighter.

“I wanted to,” she says, “I know today’s difficult for you, and I wanted to tell you it’s gonna be okay.”

“You have work in an hour.”

“You’re my wife, I want to make sure you’re at your best.”

“Same goes for you, DeeDee. You’re gonna be all sleep-deprived when you go into the office.”

“They’ve got coffee in the break room,” she retorts, “And I figured I’d steal one of your energy drinks…?”

I gasp in mock-horror. “The Delilah Krauss, drinking an energy drink? I never thought I’d see the day! Of course you can, hon, but be careful with those.”

She laughs. I kiss her on the forehead and let her go.

While she gets ready for work, I head into the kitchen to grab two protein bars and one of the energy drinks I left in the fridge. I don’t plan on sleeping yet, not when there’s so much to do for today, but I at least need to make sure I keep my nutrient levels in check. After all, when you can mend bones and do it often enough, that can really put a damper on your energy.

I sit on the couch and turn on the television. An ad plays for Artura Family Corporation, and I stare blankly at the stock smiling faces and cheerful testimonies for their newest drug while I unwrap the first protein bar. So many companies are the same with their advertisements that they all tend to blend, and a part of me wonders with some humor if it’s the same marketing team working with all of them.

Delilah comes out of her room as the ad changes to the local news station. She wears business casual clothing in a mixture of navy blue and charcoal grey, perfectly neutral and relatable for her clients. She opens her arms wide and grins at me with a face of minimal makeup.

“How do I look?” she asks.

“As beautiful as ever,” I answer with a grin, “You’re gonna kick ass today, hon.”

“Thanks.” She moves forward and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve gotta head out. Take care of yourself, okay? And be sure to have more than just a couple of protein bars!”

“Oh, trust me, Alice’ll make sure of that. Have a good day at work!”

Delilah rushes out the door and to the car. I hear it turn on and listen as it pulls out of the driveway.

I’ve been staring at assorted flower bouquets for at least ten minutes.

The guy at the cart has been watching me. He’s on the younger side, with an olive complexion and some bad temperament. I look at him occasionally just to get a read on his expression. More than likely, he’s suspicious. Not that I blame him, I’m definitely the suspicious type, especially since I haven’t talked to him once yet.

“What are you looking for?” he finally asks me.

It takes me a minute to work up the courage to respond. “Do you have any flowers for a loved one that’s passed?”

His expression visibly softens, from suspicion to sympathy. There’s something in there that might be pity as well, but I realize that might be my tough-girl attitude berating me for saying that much in the first place. I’ve been trying to handle people being sympathetic toward me better than when I used to; it’s been difficult, to say the least.

“Yeah, I can help with that,” he says.

The guy helps me pick out the right bouquet. We don’t talk about anything else while he does so, and I’m thankful for the reprieve from conversation. Death is something I’m familiar with, sure, but it’s also something I’d rather not speak of, especially when it’s a death that hits as close to home as this one. I don’t think any death hits as close to home as this one.

I’m paying for the bouquet as Alice bounces up toward me with food. She’s a sweet woman. At around five-six, she’s portly and sporting a comfortable sweater and pair of jeans. Her bright green eyes shine encouragingly as she hands me one of the pastries she’d bought. I take it obligingly, knowing she’ll likely get onto me if I don’t eat something while in her company.

Alice is a therapist, specifically for people with magical abilities like me. While not my therapist personally, she’s provided plenty of insight into my troubles. She was there for me during my very volatile high school career, and I don’t think I can thank her enough for that.

Not to mention her own magical ability, a calming aura that makes me feel just a little more at-ease about today. She grins at me as we walk away, food and flowers in hand.

“Those are lovely flowers,” she comments.

“Yeah,” I say, “The guy at the cart said it’s the one best suited for grief.”

“I’m proud of you for asking for help.”

“It was just flowers.”

Alice hums, chewing on a bite of her pastry. She holds a finger up as she swallows, wiping the crumbs from her mouth. “But you still asked for help on choosing them. That’s a big step for you, Addie.”

I glance away. “Come on, Alice, don’t bring on the therapy voice.”

“Sorry, sorry! I’m just proud of you.” Alice laughs, waving a hand dismissively. “And I think your sister would be proud, too. You’ve grown immensely since we were teens.”

Mention of my sister bring a pang to my chest, despite Alice’s aura. Her name was Cassandra, but everyone called her Casey. She died when I was fourteen. I’d found her bloodless, lifeless body in the kitchen, pale as bone, with the mass of her life swirling around her killer like an aura of his own.

I swore up and down that it was murder, that the teen who did it was guilty as hell, but nothing came of it. It was ruled an accident, as manifestations of abilities usually are when these things happen. That didn’t stop me from being angry at him. It didn’t stop me from being unstable into adulthood either, having a manifestation of my own, going into juvenile detention. It didn’t stop me from carrying that grief and hatred into my later years, and while I’ve mellowed significantly since then, days like this are hard.

Every year, on the anniversary of Cassandra Krauss’s death, I put a bouquet of flowers on her grave.

“You really think she would?” I ask, “I mean—after everything?”

“I do,” Alice says, “I think she would realize you’ve been doing your best to turn another leaf and find ways to deal with your problems.”

There’s a pause as we stop at an intersection, waiting for the crosswalk signal to turn green. She’s looking across the street, but still smiling that same prideful smile she has the entire conversation. I can’t help it; I find myself smiling, too.

“Thanks, Allie.”

“You’re welcome, Addie.”

It’s quiet at the grave site.

The skies are overcast above me, with a slight breeze blowing through the graveyard. Casey’s epitaph stands before me, solid in its finality, reading Cassandra Krauss: Beloved Daughter, Sister, and Friend. I hold the bouquet of flowers in both hands, close to my chest as though they were precious. In truth, the flowers are meaningless to me, but she loved them.

“Hey, sis,” I say.

I set the flowers down at her tomb stone, then take a step back and sit in front of the grave. I pull my leather jacket tighter against me, trying to keep out some of the chill. My throat closes with something raw and grotesque, as it always does when I think about what happened that day.

“Um—” I take a deep breath. “I brought you those. It’s been ten years, I figured I would actually try with picking out the flowers. The—The guy at the cart said these were the best he could find for grief. You should’ve seen the way he looked at me when I asked, I thought I was gonna punch him for it!”

A laugh leaves me, trying to take the edge off of the situation. “I, uh, I didn’t though. I held back. I’ve been trying really hard to let people have sympathy for me, y’know?”

“It’s… It’s hard being tough.”

I let out a sigh. There’s a tightness in my chest that refuses to leave, and not for the first time do I wish that she could be here to talk to me. To laugh with me, even, to tell me herself that she’s proud of what I’ve accomplished.

But she isn’t, and I have to live with that.

“Oh—Delilah told me that I should tell you about her. Since she and I are, you know,” I continue, “She works this job at a small pharmaceutical company? Sales. But she’s super good at it! Super persuasive, I think you would’ve gotten along with her. Especially considering how you said you wanted to be a lawyer?”

The one-sided conversation continues from there, with me telling Casey’s grave everything I can think of about my life and how I’ve been doing. It starts out a little choppy, but as I go further into it, I realize it’s like getting a weight off my chest. It helps for me to talk about these things and makes me feel just a little bit closer to the sister that I lost.

As I stand up to leave, I swear someone’s watching me. There’s a feeling that makes the hairs on the back of my neck raise, and I turn around, wondering who it could be. I see nobody, of course; maybe it’s just my paranoia getting the better of me.

I leave with a final goodbye to Casey’s grave.

“And Carmen, she tells me something juicy,” Delilah says, excitement on her face, “She tells me that she saw representatives from Artura Family, with our supervisor!”

I raise both brows, grinning. “Really? That’s a big name, you’re not worried they’re gonna buy you guys out?”

She sets two plates on the table. It’s a heaping serving of chicken alfredo, Delilah’s specialty and my comfort food. She sits across from me at the table and shrugs her shoulders in answer to my question, still beaming.

“I don’t know,” she says, “But they seemed pretty prospective. Something about the research we’ve been doing.”

I let out a little hum in response, taking a large bite of the pasta. We both eat in silence for a moment, both hungry after our prospective outings. The only noise that fills the air is the clinking of silverware on ceramic.

That is, until someone pounds on the front door.

“Do you think you could get that, honey?” Delilah asks. I nod and wipe alfredo sauce from the corners of my mouth, walking out of the dining room toward the front door. Before I open it, the pounding resounds again, a little more frantic. My hand hovers over the doorknob. I look over toward the dining room, at Delilah’s concerned expression. She nods at me.

I look back over to the door, and carefully open it.

Standing in front of me is a man. He’s tall and gaunt, slightly slouched, and haggard. His skin is deathly pale, as are his hair and eyes, which have dark circles around them. He wears a small pair of glasses with thick coke-bottle lenses, and an Artura Family set of scrubs, with his name embroidered on the top: Derek R. When he sees me, there’s an inherent fear in his expression, as if he doesn’t know how I’ll react. I stare back at him, eyes wide, and my blood boils with emotions dredged up from the pit of my subconscious.

I never thought I would see my sister’s killer again.

“I know you’re not happy to see me,” he says, breathless, “But you’ve gotta help me, Addie.”