I’m still quiet when we pull into the RV lot. I've been given a lot to think about.

Now that I see it, I think I remember a place like this when I was a kid but it must’ve gone out of business years ago in my world. The south of Akron by the highway is hilly, and in this world, a whole side of one is dotted with shining white specks that grow into various sizes of recreational vehicles as we approach.

What is it about what Ochoa said? I weigh it against what I’ve known about myself for a long time that might apply. First, I have a horror of imposing on people. I like people, I mean. I just don’t want to bother them. I have no problem talking to whoever if it's expected, right? I'm a journalist and have to for my job. That's fine. Calling somebody up out of the blue? Asking somebody for the time? Nope. I always feel like an asshole or a creep or both. I hate it. Second, I’m an introvert. My dad once explained the whole extrovert, introvert thing this way: Some people understand the world through interacting with others. They build a kind of consensus of comprehension to help them make their way. That’s your extrovert. An introvert understands the world by understanding himself. Whenever I don’t understand something somebody does, I first try very hard to put myself firmly in their shoes. What would make me do that thing? Dad said that both types have their strengths and weaknesses. For example, if most people are confused by a thing, or if there’s no one around to question, the extrovert might have more trouble grasping whatever it is. All an introvert needs is himself. So, since we do okay on our own we do that. We can get lonely. Or odd from our isolation. Or both.

In my own world, well yeah, I was probably odd there too, but I wasn't lonely most of the time. But now I’m thinking that was because of the support I had. Nick and I have been friends for years. I was close with my parents. Yeah, I generally get along with people, but I had friends and family who facilitated that. Here, I don’t. Nobody to introduce me to others and help me integrate and socialize because they know how I am.

The point is that even though I’m getting a handle on how to use these powers of mine, I don’t understand them and when I look into myself, well, I got nothing. That scares me.

Asking others, bothering them about it, upsets me and my fear that someone could get hurt just by being around me adds fuel to that fire. I've been telling myself that nobody's been in my shoes before, right? Only Ben's been in Ben's shoes so how could anybody help me figure this out? And why would they when a runaway train might squish them or a tiger escaped from the zoo could try to hump their leg?

The odd thing is that people have tried.

Looking back, the Rigbys were reaching out to me. So did Stacy Nostrum, though her motives might’ve been… less than pure. The Wests? Dr. Linn?

Ochoa has essentially told me that she and Tyler were up for it.

Have I been pushing them away?

If not, I certainly have been less than welcoming. And that’s not like me. I'm shy but I'm a people person, if that makes sense. I'm so welcoming my name should've been Matt.

Fuck that. If I have to live with this then I might as well live with it as myself. As a person I like and respect.

Okay, then.

When we pull into the lot, I know that as soon as we get out of the car we’re going to be mobbed by salespeople. Right? How many people idly drop by a place like this if they aren’t seriously looking to buy? And I’m buying. As soon as they pick up on that, it’s going to suck.They're going to try to lead me around and list a bunch of features that I don't understand because I've never bought an RV before and haven't had time to do any research even though this is going to be my new home and now I feel like an idiot.

Right.

I sigh and do some thinking out loud. “I don’t want anything too big. I’ve got to be able to drive it around. Too small and I won’t want to live in it. Ochoa? Can you drive us over to those over there?”

They have the different vehicles arranged by size and type. The ones I’ve indicated aren’t the smallish van-looking ones or the big bus-looking ones, but the truck-looking ones where most of them have that overhang whatever over the cab.

She obliges me with a grin and I surprise her by returning it with double the wattage. Buying my home is kind of exciting.

When we get out, I close my eyes and stretch out my arms. “Quick,” I say, “Before the sales zombies get us, spin me around and give me a shove.”

She giggles and I feel her hands on my waist.

I was expecting shoulders but, okay. Ochoa’s messing with me again.

So, I’m blushing as she spins me around a lot. I start to push.

At least she’s gentle with her nudge when she's done and I stagger off. I'm a little dizzy and I don’t try to walk in a straight line. I just concentrate on keeping my feet and following the brighter concentrations of aethings. I stumble again when my foot moves off the asphalt. Are there even any RVs over this far? I’m not going to tumble down the side of the hill, am I?

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My hand hits something solid that feels a little like aluminum siding.

“Good choice!” says a voice behind me before I can even open my eyes.

When I do I’m looking at one of the longer truckish ones, maybe a bit over thirty feet long, with the overhang. It’s white with some abstract whooshy designs and has part of it sticking out like it folds back in by its ass.

I turn and see Ochoa standing beside a salesman. He’s a bit taller than me, blond, with a ruddy complexion like he was just out fishing this morning, and a wide, genuine smile. He’s wearing a navy blazer, blue buttoned-down shirt, no tie, and blue jeans.

He holds out his hand. “Ian Freeman,” he says. “And that is the most unique way I’ve ever seen to find the best Class C motorhome on the lot.”

“Ben Walker,” I say. “That’s Agent Monica Ochoa of the FBI. Class C?”

Freeman holds up his hands and chortles. He’s a chortler. “I’m not in any trouble am I?” he says. He points to the bus-like RVs and says, “Those are Class A.” He points the the van-like ones. “Those are Class B.”

“That’s not how I thought that was going to go.”

“Yeah, I know, right? You’d think it’d be biggest to smallest, A, B, C, and I don’t know the reason why it's not. Never bothered to ask even though it comes up a lot,” says Freeman and he shrugs. "I promise myself I'll find out or look it up every time."

“Are you the one that Myra West has dealt with in the past?” I ask.

Freeman nods. “Yep. Nice lady.”

“She is,” I say. “Well, we’re going to take this one.”

“Oh!” says Freeman, his eyebrows climbing up to his hairline. He looks from Ochoa to me and back. "Is this the wife?"

“No!” I say way too fast.

Ochoa giggles.

“Uh, no,” I say. “She’s a friend. She gave me a ride here, I mean. Today. This morning.”

Freeman smiles. He pats the side of the motorhome. “You don’t want me to tell you about it first?”

“Gas? Diesel?” asks Ochoa.

“Gas,” says Freeman. “Sponsored battery both to help run the engine and the amenities inside. Sleeps five. A queen bed, bunk beds built into the side there.” He nods at the bit that sticks out over the rear wheel by the side door. “Plus the cabover.” He points at the overhang over the cab. “Fifty-five gallon tank. Forty gallons fresh water, 28 gallons grey, 28 gallons black. Stand-up shower, toilet, stove, microwave, two forty-inch televisions. One in the bedroom. One over the dinette. Sofa—.”

“You have a practitioner on staff?” asks Ochoa. “For reinforcing?”

Freeman nods. “Yes, indeedy. Premium package for—.”

Ochoa nods at me. “You’re gonna want that,” she says.

"Keeps stuff from breaking?" I ask.

She nods.

I’m glad she’s here. I wouldn’t have thought to ask.

“Um, do you only have the one?” I say. "Uh, motorhome in this model?"

“You want two?” Freeman laughs.

I say, “No, but I might need another one in a hurry one day.”

Ochoa nods in approval.

“What are you planning?” Freeman’s joking but he’s curious.

I’m not about to go explaining my curses to everybody I meet. Instead, I say, “Myra said she’d handle the particulars. This is the one I want. Go ahead and give her a call, please, Mr. Freeman.”

Freeman’s smile is prodigious.

I turn to Ochoa. “I didn’t have any breakfast. While he’s doing that, you want to get something to eat? There’s like a thousand places nearby.”

Ochoa says, “Are you asking me out?”

“It’s lunchtime,” I say with a groan, rolling my eyes as my heart tries to box my larynx. “I’m hungry. You hungry?”

“Yep,” she says, drawing the word out and popping the P.

“I wouldn’t dare ask you out, Agent Ochoa,” I say and swallow. “I’m much too intimidated by you.”

“And that, Ben Walker,” says Ochoa, flicking a finger on my chest. “Was a flirtation.”

“Was not.”

Ochoa let me pick the place by spinning me around again with my eyes closed and my arm out, finger pointing as I pushed. Up on the side of the hill near its top, we overlooked the whole area. Okay, maybe it's overkill for just lunch, but why not?

“Applebee’s?” I say.

Ochoa shrugs. “Maybe they’ve got their best cook on or something,” she says. “Or the cutest waitress.”

So, Applebee’s.

When we get there the hostess can seat us immediately. Ochoa excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

The place is only a quarter full. I don’t notice any special waitress. The smells don’t seem particularly ambrosial. I start to wonder why my luck brought us here to the wonderment that is Applebee's.

But there, sitting at a table in the middle of the dining area, facing the door, is Beardy. The man who cursed me the second time.

I’m sure I confuse the hostess by sitting down across from him but she doesn’t protest and, after a moment, leaves me alone with him.

He is staring at me.

That's okay because I'm staring just as hard at him. Boggling, in fact.

“You’re alive,” he says. “How can you be alive?”

“It’s your fault,” I say. “The—.”

“The second curse reacted with the first!” he says, eyes bulging. He hops in his seat. “Two level threes?”

I nod. “Two level fours now.”

“Level fours!” he whispers. “My God, I’ve never heard of anybody with a level four anything. They haven’t killed you?”

“They try,” I say. “I can see probability which helps. Luck? I can affect it a little. There’s an art to it though. If I push too hard there’s backlash.”

“Oh wow,” says Beardy. He’s totally fan-girling, which is a new experience for me.

“I’m Ben Walker,” I say. “I think if you hadn’t cursed me I’d be dead now.” I hold out my hand. "So, thanks."

He hesitates. He says, “Call me Adam.” He shakes my hand.

“You’re a practitioner,” I say.

“Oh, yes.”

“And you’re still in town,” I say. I lean and whisper, “After killing Lansky and her partner?”

He snorts. “That was not her partner. Just a hired goon,” he says. “And technically this is another town.”

“But you know what’s going on in the area, don't you?” I say.

He chews on his bottom lip but says nothing.

I say, “Why’d you kill them?”

“Any practitioner caught in the act of something like that is subject to summary execution by the authorities,” says Adam. “They were evil pricks. I stepped in, saving them some work.”

“What? No trial? That’s legal?”

Adam nods. “Yeah. I mean, not for me, no. They can do it. Look, you’re new here. Think about it. How do you incarcerate or even control someone who can melt your face or escape to another dimension with a gesture of their hand? The law came about because one guy liquefied the Boulder police department.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, not just the cops. The whole department. A five-story building drained away into the gutters with everybody inside it and the guy got away.”

“They never found him?”

“They didn’t. I shot him in the head in Caracas a week later.” Adam shrugs.

“You’re here for the kidnappings!” I say.

Adam shushes me. He says, “Who told you about that?”

“The FBI.”

“The FBI?”

“Yeah, she’s in the bathroom.”