“So, how old are you?” asked the old man, handing Rachel yet another bowl of soup. She had spent that morning the same way she spent the previous two, shifting energy from one shoulder into the other, then up and down her arms - first the left, then the right.

It turned out controlling energy was similar to writing, in that she had a clear dominant arm. It took her only half as long to move the energy to her right hand.

“That’s an odd question,” she said.

“Is it?” asked the old man.

“Well, you haven’t even asked my name. And you don’t seem to be keen on giving me yours.”

“A name is a powerful thing,” said the old man, pointing a soup spoon at her. A bit of broth splashed on the table. “You know what a vampire can do with your name? Names are powerful things, best not given out so casually.”

“What about a fake name,” offered Rachel, struggling to keep track of the energy in her shoulder. Or was it in her elbow? Or no, her upper back?

Now she understood why the old man was asking her random questions. She could control the energy well enough when she was sitting in the old man’s house, sipping soup, minding her own business, but what would happen if she had to focus while locked in mortal combat?

She had to learn how to split her attention.

“Oh no, a fake name is no good,” said the old man, shaking his head vigorously. “Assume you lied, told everyone your name was…” He glanced up at the ceiling, scratching his chin. “Assume you told everyone your name was potato. And assume that’s what people started calling you. Well, fake or not, if that’s what everyone knows you by, and that’s what you answer to, then that becomes your name. And now, suddenly, a vampire can control your heart by uttering the name ‘potato.’ So no, no fake names. Your death will be no less sure, but far more humiliating.”

“Got it,” said Rachel, taking note.

She searched her shoulder for that familiar electric sensation - for the feeling of energy. But it was not there. Then she searched her arms and neck, and even her heart, worried the energy might have fallen toward her internal organs. But it was nowhere to be found.

“It’s difficult to maintain,” she said. “At least, when I’m having a conversation.” She lowered her head, frustrated at herself for making so little progress after days of effort.

“It’s not only that,” said the old man, filling her bowl with more soup. “When you first got here, it took you many minutes to just move the energy up and down your arm.” He slid her bowl of soup across the table, until it bumped against his own. “But now you can move it up and down your arm in less than a minute.” He moved the bowl again, but much faster this time, causing the soup to spill out all over the table.

“Imagine you’re carrying a heavy bucket of water, filled to the brim,” he said. “If you carry it slowly, it’s far less likely to spill. But if you have the strength to run around with it, eventually all the water will spill out.”

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Rachel roller her shoulders, stiff from clenching her muscles so much. The old man told her the training had nothing to do with muscle control, but she couldn’t help but flex her arms as the energy passed through them. This helped her keep track of it.

Now that the energy was gone, she started to notice something she hadn’t noticed before. Or rather, she noticed what was missing. The soreness in her joints from all of that weight training, the numb pain coursing through her body - it had almost entirely vanished from the places where she had sent energy.

“Finally noticing?” said the old man, nodding thoughtfully. “You can’t repair flesh yet, or heal mortal wounds, but just sending energy through your body should be enough to repair muscles.”

“Very cool,” said Rachel, wriggling her fingers. She suddenly felt like she could lift boulders, climb mountains one handed, do battle with bears.

She felt stronger than she had ever felt before.

“And there’s more,” said the old man, leaning over excitedly. “Try making a little energy of your own. Like I’ve been doing.”

Rachel glanced at him skeptically. He had given her no instruction on how to do it, and he had even told her it would take months to master. But she knew the sensation well, that jolt of energy when he held his hand to her, like he was passing her a piece of fire.

She concentrated on her fingers, and imagined a blue flame forming in the palm of her hand. For a moment nothing happened, or rather, the opposite of what she wanted to happen occured. She could feel energy leaking out of her, her arms growing weaker by the second.

An all too familiar soreness returned to her.

“Don’t worry,” said the old man, nodding reassuringly. “This is normal. It’s like you’ve opened up a door. That means cool air can come in, but warm air can also leak out. Now it’s up to you to control that flow.”

Rachel increased the intensity of her focus. She pictured the energy flowing into her fingertips, up past her biceps, and into her shoulder. Soon the process reversed itself, and she could feel energy coursing into her hand, filling her up.

In fact, it was more than she had ever felt before. She felt like she was drowning, as if she had jumped off a cliff and head first into the ocean, the cold waves crashing against her, bashing her against the rocks. She somehow felt both powerful and weak at the same time.

She let out a scream and fell to the floor.

The old man quickly dropped to the ground and held her hand. She felt the energy quickly leaking out of her, until the drowning sensation went away.

“Seems you opened the door a little too wide,” said the old man, laughing nervously.

Rachel watched his expression carefully. At first she thought the look on his face was worry, a look she had learned to hate. Too many had seen her as helpless and weak, and had offered her help that she never needed.

But she had seen that expression enough times to recognize it, and this was something different. This was fear, mixed with a bit of admiration, an expression she had only ever seen from the side.

It was now that she noticed chunks of pulverized wood in her palm, in the same hand she had just been clenching the table with. And looking at the table, there was a hole in the side of it, the edges covered in fingernail marks.

“What the hell...” muttered Rachel, glancing at the old man.

He simply smiled at her, his expression still full of fear, but now with a hint of pride. If he regretted teaching her, then it did not matter.

There was no going back now.

She would never be satisfied with a quiet life on the farm again.