I didn’t give Maddie’s address to Rachel. I didn’t tell her anything. I finished eating, then showered and shaved and changed my bandages.

I thought about home. I’m a jack of all trades and master of none--not just as a handyman but as a human being. I’m smart enough, but no genius. I’m athletic, but no jock. I like cooking but I’m not a chef. I’m a good listener, an adequate lobsterman, an okay dancer. I didn't go to college but I read a lot--trying to keep up with Dewitt.

I’m like that with everything.

And I’ve got three orbs lodged in my chest. They’re harder than diamond, denser than iridium, and in violation of the laws of gravity. They’re not faster than a speeding bullet--if that bullet came out of a .243 rifle. They might beat a sluggish .45 round, though, creaking along at 700 mph. They’ve got the impact force of a cannonball.

Oh, and they’re linked to my thoughts, and to the dense knot in my chest they use as a counterweight.

Fine. I accept how strange that is, and how central to my story--to my identity.

Yet none of it really matters. That’s me, but I’m not just me, I’m not some lone wolf who thinks he can make it by himself. Or who wants to. The fact is, the Storm didn’t just bring me the orbs, it brought much more, both good and bad.

First I lost my sister. Then I lost the ability to take care of myself: to feed myself and clean myself, to stand and speak and scratch my nuts. Usually I gloss over those years, but the lessons of vulnerability and dependency struck deep. Can you imagine not being able to do anything for yourself? You realize that how much you need people. How completely you need them. The lessons of trust and belonging and love struck deep.

So yeah, I gloss over that because what is there to say? When I was helpless, the people on the Rock helped me. When I was loveless, they loved me.

But I don’t owe them for that. That’s not a debt of the repayable kind: it's not a debt at all. In the end, that wasn’t something they did for me. It was something we did for us. We’re a community, we’re together. Bound closer by the Storm, sure--but not as close as love and life had already drawn us. I belong to them--they belong to me--we belong to us.

Which is a longwinded way of saying that the guy in that hotel shower, the guy drying his hair and pouring hydrogen peroxide over his arm, that guy was not alone. Forget his psychic orbs and his master-of-none mediocrity. What mattered was this: he was part of something bigger than himself.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

So I consulted my memory. What would they say? Gustav and Trish and the Johns and the Bankheads and all the rest? And Mr. and Mrs. Dougherty--what would they say?

Then I dressed and leaned against the bathroom door and watched Rachel talking on her cellphone. I remembered seeing her perched on that scaffolding, with Spandle climbing after her. Worrying about her sister instead of herself. Just like Simone had worried about me.

When she finished talking, I asked, "How long does Maddie have?"

"Before she loses herself? There's no telling. Maybe two or three days. Except PJ’s getting stronger. How long has she known him?"

"I don’t know."

"Then assume you’re running out of time." She pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "This is where we stand, Lark. We’re looking at a few thousand people dead in a matter of hours. That’s number one."

"Dead how? What? Would you slow down? Dead where?"

She clicked the TV onto a news channel and the lead story--the only story--was the subway bombing.

I sank onto the edge of the bed and watched. Wreckage in a darkened tunnel, a woman with a bloody face, an anchor talking about frantic phone calls, a hundred and twenty people still missing.

"The senator warned me about this," Rachel said. "There’s another one coming. Then a hundred more."

"A hundred more," I repeated, faintly. "She--why’d that lady stab them first?"

"I don’t know. Maybe PJ made her. A blonde housewife--they picked her to make an impact. If you can’t trust a suburban mommy, who can you trust? Maybe that explains the knifing. They’re trying to make a splash."

I turned off the TV. I couldn’t handle the pictures. "What else did the senator tell you?"

"That the city will burn if I don’t stop PJ. Thousands dead, blood in the streets."

"No pressure, though."

She eyed me. "The second thing is, we’ve got nothing on PJ and nothing on Spandle. The feds are coming up empty. You understand, Lark? We've got nothing. Three, Umlaut found an address on Boone’s New Park affiliate, called Dynamic Resources Group. Which is a guaranteed dead-end. Probably."

"Probably?"

"Who knows, with Boone? And number four is you, Lark. Some random guy who dragged his ass into the middle of all this. You're all we've got. And the woman--both women. What’s Shandra’s story?"

"She’s the kind of longshot who catches powers like a disease."

"She’s--" Rachel shook her head in disbelief. "--telepathic?"

"I guess."

"I need more than that."

"She feels the imprints that people leave behind. Emotions, fears, that sort of thing. Sometimes she sees memories. They--they hit her like a sledgehammer."

"How do you two know each other?"

"We’re old friends."

Rachel gave me a look. "And how about Maddie? Any quirks?"

"Um." My mind ranged over Maddie’s slow smile and quick temper. "No."

"You don’t sound sure."

"I’m sure."

"Look at me, Lark. This is important."

"Her quirk is, I’m in love with her."

Rachel smiled, a little crookedly. "You should find a girl who doesn’t beat you with a wrench."

"Yeah," I said. "Time to re-write that personal ad."

Her smile faded into thoughtfulness. "Maddie’s in the middle of this somehow. Suicide bombers and all."

"Yeah."

"I’ve got a few bad options," Rachel told me. "But the least bad one is getting Maddie’s address."

"Her last name is Daugherty," I said. "She lives on Avenue B."