I’m dead.

Bullets fly through me so fast I don’t even feel them. I stumble backwards against the wall and pat around my body for holes. There’s blood all over my hands and …

Oh, wait …

Hold on.

That’s cow blood … from the steak.

“Mr. Cobb, kindly show us the slice of raw meat,” says Browning.

I look at Browning, at Thing 1, back at Browning, back at Thing 1. My heart is on fire, pumping so hard I can hear the blood in my ears. Or, at least I could if they weren’t ringing so loud.

The acoustics in this room are wild.

I point a finger at the army grunt. “Were those blanks?” I say.

“Confirmed,” says Thing 1, holstering his gun. He doesn’t leave. Instead, he stands there, his hands behind his back. There’s another gun on his leg. That one, I guess, has the live rounds.

“You know, you are a total dick,” I say. “Did Browning tell you to do that?”

“Mr. Cobb, if you could—”

“I can’t,” I snap at Browning. “It’s gone. I lift my bloody hands to show them. I peer around my feet, the table just to make sure. But I know it’s gone because I felt it leave that time. There’s a kind of steak shaped echo in my mind, some residual feeling. An intangible receipt, which is very hard to explain. I convey as much to my captors. Or try to, at least.

“Interesting,” says Browning. Although I don’t think he meant to say that over the speaker.

“Let me guess,” I say, “heightened emotional states. You think my feelings have an effect on how al this works.”

There’s a pause, then, “Very good, Mr. Cobb. Yes, based on the empirical evidence it’s quite obvious that your emotions play a role.”

It was true. I reflect to the two occasions:

Tom was attacking me.

The nurse was intimidatingly beautiful.

“What are you going to do, keep finding new and exciting ways to scare the crap out of me?”

“Ideally, Mr. Cobb, you would learn how to control your gift … and your emotions.”

“Not to mention your tongue,” says another voice, a female voice through the speakers.

I squint at the transparent barrier between us. “Was that Asian chick?” I say. “Hey, you, I didn’t know you could talk. Oh … oh, there’s that eye roll again. Signature move right there. Hey, why don’t you come in here and give me a nice juicy kiss, huh? Let’s see how that affects my performance.”

Doctor Shen leans forward over the console to say something when Browning stops her. He pipes in with “Mr. Cobb, if—”

“Yeah, yeah, onto the next one.” I point at Thing 1. “You stay right there, big guy. I’m already super pissed and riled up. I don’t need any more help from you.”

Thing 1 cracks a smirk so subtle I almost miss it.

“Mr. Co—”

“Got it, Browning,” I say. “Jeez, you people are pushy.”

“That’s Doctor Browning to you,” says Doctor Shen’s voice.

I snort a laugh and look at Jim. He’s looking to the side, his fist pressed up against his lips, desperately trying to hold back a smile. He seems to be enjoying his colleagues' frustrations with me almost as much as I am.

That’s the Jim I remember.

I stare down at the bunny. Unlike creepy crawly things I’ve a soft spot in my heart for the fuzzy and cute. I just hope I don’t make a mess.

I wipe my hands off on the towel.

“Come here little guy,” I say, as I pick it up. It first tries to escape then decides to snuggle up to me instead.

I close my eyes, concentrate, and instantly feel something. I recognize it. The feeling I felt a minute ago with the steak. It’s something that’s been there every time I’ve made something vanish but it’s always been distant. It’s a little closer now, more tangible. It ebbs and flows within my mind as my own feelings swim around it. I feel myself connecting with it. In my mind's eye I visualize a gently swirling hole. A black hole. Vast and god-like. The words “open” and “proceed” and “obtain” appear in my mind. I feel peace, sad, angry, enraged, happy, passion all at once. A smorgasbord of raw emotions converting into energy.

Old memories of my parents surface. Recent memories of current events flash before me.

I panic.

The gaping maw of the black hole irises shut and I’m thrown out, backwards.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

I lift my head, open my eyes, and gasp. “Whoa,” I say. “That was different.”

I look down. The bunny is gone, save for a foot. I cringe and hold the bloody stump up for all to see.

“Almost,” I say, putting the foot down. “Poor guy.”

“How was that different?” says Browning.

“I … don’t know. I went somewhere in my mind. Or something took me somewhere. Hard to explain. I could feel … there was something there to connect to.”

“Can you expand on that?”

“I don’t know,” I say, as I pick up a potted plant. I hold the stem and close my eyes. I try to visualize the experience I just had, but it feels forced.

“Nothing,” I say. Yep, nope, same for the rock and the handful of seeds. I’m getting nuttin for either of these.”

A new voice pops in over the speaker: male, but younger. “Mr. Cobb, please proceed in an orderly fashion. You’re moving too quickly for us to accurately record the data for each individual sample.”

“Who are you?”

The man clears his throat. “I’m … my name is Doctor Farfegnugen. I’m a biolo—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. Your name is what now?”

“Doctor … Farfegnugen.”

“You’re joking.”

There’s a pause. “No, I’m not.”

“That’s … what’s your first name?”

“Why?”

“Just tell me.”

“Wolfgang.”

“Your name is Wolfgang Fartfanhooigan?”

“Farfegnugen.”

“Farf. A. Nugen,” I repeat back. “Farfegnugen. What is that German? That just kind of rolls around in the mouth, doesn’t it? Have to say it like you have marbles in your—”

“Mr. Cobb, move on,” comes Browning’s booming voice. “Please.”

“Sure,” I say, picking up a vial of dark red liquid. “This is blood, right, Fart Hoogan? What kind of blood? Human?”

The young voice makes a squeaking sound, like he wants to say something else but lets out a breath instead then says, “Human. Yes. Type O positive.”

“Whose? Mine?”

“No. It’s not yours.”

I pop the cap and pour a little on both palms. It’s very cold. As soon as I do, the black hole appears in my mind, but slips away almost as fast.

“I … get the impression that I can send this but it would be rejected,” I say, opening my eyes. “I think I’m starting to understand.”

“Send where?” says Browning.

I shrug. “No idea. But it’s got to go somewhere, right? Law of conservation of mass and all that.”

I reach back for the towel at the other end of the table and wipe my hands clean.

I catch Thing 1’s eye, he’s still standing there like a statue. An idea comes to my mind. I toss the towel at him with a “be a good army boy and hold this, please.” The towel lands on his foot but he makes no move to pick it up. “You’re going to need that in a minute,” I say.

He just raises an eyebrow, confused.

“It works with the biological,” I say, moving to the next item. “Organic things only. Flesh. Or, whatever you want to call it. But not plants. Wouldn’t you agree, Doctor Fartgun? Oh, now this one is interesting.”

I pick up the green crystal shard. I instantly recognize it as a fractured piece of the object that crushed my home. There’s a very subtle twitch from my scar the moment I make contact. I close my eyes and focus, but nothing happens. I channel my annoyance, my frustration, my desire to punch Thing 1, the betrayal I feel from Jim. I dump it all into making this crystal move.

But I get nothing.

I’m about to set it down when a completely new sensation courses through my hand.

The scar begins to … open.

The slit down the center peels back revealing all manner of disgusting innards—razor sharp teeth being the most prominent of these features.

Then it closes.

I’m holding my hand in a way that only I can see my palm.

“Mr. Cobb,” comes Browning’s voice.

“Huh?” I put my hands behind my back.

“The crystal, Mr. Cobb. Did anything happen?”

“The what now? Oh, right. Uh, no. Nope. Let’s move onto the next one.”

I keep my right hand clenched and behind my back as I lift the lid of the box of the final item. “So, what’s after this, Browning? You going to give me a mammogram or somethi—?”

I look down.

I close it, step back.

I have the sudden desire to puke.

“Mr. Cobb.”

I swallow, stare at the box.

Mr. Cobb.”

I suck in a breath and let it out.

Mr. Co—”

“You people are sick,” I say. “Just … this is wrong.” I point at the box.

There’s a moment of silence. I expect Browning to make a remark but he doesn’t. The moment just hangs there, all of them waiting for me to say or do something.

I look at Thing 1. He lifts his chin at me.

I sigh, shake my head, then lift the lid again. I can feel all kinds of emotions now:

Rage.

Guilt.

Anger.

The need to get out of here—all of them heightened by the sight of the woman’s severed hand before me.

I recognize the painted nails. It's pasty white now, devoid of blood. I don’t pick it up. Instead, I close my eyes and touch the back of the hand with two fingers. It’s cold and stiff. Rigor mortis has set in.

The connection is not as strong as it was with the spider and the bunny. Feels like the connection I made with the steak. That makes sense in a way. They’re both similar: dead parts of a once living whole.

The hand vanishes completely.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and unclench the sphincter I didn't know I was clenching.

“It's gone,” I say, then step out from behind the table. I walk toward Thing 1.

“I don’t don’t feel so good, I …” I stumble closer towards the army guy.

He lowers his eyebrows.

I’m groping at my chest now, groaning. I start shaking my hands frantically.

“What’s wrong, Mr Cobb?” says Browning.

Thing 1 tentatively fingers his pistol. The one on his leg.

“I just … I just … I just,” I say, stumbling even closer to the army brute.

He takes a step back.

“I just have one question,” I say. I make eye contact with him. I’m only a few feet away from him now.

“What?” Says Thing 1, cringing.

“How do you like your steak cooked? Well done, or …”

At that moment the steak reappears in my hands and I thrust it in his face. I follow it up by ramming my shoulder into his stomach as hard as I can. It's not enough to knock him off balance but it distracts him long enough for me to pull his gun.

The one on his leg.