Hot, humid air mixes with the sweat of awkwardly arranged limbs under a pile of blankets. Avery struggles. She flails, kicking both her feet with wild frustration. One foot rockets out of the steaming maw of her comforter and fresh, cold air rushes over her body. The relief nearly distracts her from the headache.

Nearly.

She rolls over onto her back and drapes an arm over her eyes. Why'd they have to turn the radiators on tonight?

Outside, the wind picks up in a whistling frenzy. It billows through sheer white curtains set around her desk's open window and dampens the unbearable heat. This'd be the moment to drift off if it wasn't for the headache. She sighs, letting an odd mix of relief and frustration seep out.

The desk itself is cluttered with remnants of tonight's dinner: half of a tomato-glazed, lentil meatloaf; an untouched pile of corn; and some stray green beans. The smell hits her nose anew and nausea tickles at the back of her throat. She drudges herself up. Up and up until she's sitting upright, her legs sprawling out over her nest of blankets.

She fusses with her pillows, forming them into a wedge near the bed's headrest. Purpose-built for keeping her body raised and — hopefully — the nausea at bay. She throws herself backward onto the pile. Can I sleep. Can I just sleep.

As if to answer, Avery's mind jerks her perception inward. Into a scene that isn't a memory, but of fear manifest in vivid detail. An intrusive thought.

Fish swirl round in a vortex of unlimited colors. Within moments, mollies, angelfish, and congo tetras all begin to struggle. Some gulp for air, others slip upside down. Already dea—

Avery grinds her palms into her eyes. "That doesn't make any sense, brain. Just let me sleep. Please."

While we're here, do you remember if you turned off the sink?

Tendrils of compulsion grip at her heart. They squeeze. Her chest and arms lock up. Breath quivers in her throat, refusing to move and starting to burn. She forces through one thought after another, searching for an explanation. Some kind of excuse.

Just then, the silence underneath the whistling of the wind hits her with inspiration: I don't hear anything from the bathroom.

In a jolt, the tendrils disappear and she sucks down a fresh breath of air. She tilts her head so that one of her ears points at the bathroom. See? Nothing.

That wind could easily drown out the sound of a running faucet.

Tendrils lash back around her heart in an instant and a weight like an anvil crashes onto her chest. With a gasp of surprise, she claws at her blankets. "I— guh. I don't need to check!"

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Are you sure?

She grits her teeth: she forces a memory of her tapping the faucet's handles to the front of her mind. Three taps each, just like always.

You're thinking about the time you checked it this morning: or you're just making it up.

She slaps her hands onto the bed and pushes herself up, over the side of the bed, and onto her feet. The pressure eases, but it's still there. Tugging each foot forward.

In the dark, she stares into the bathroom mirror. Her shadow's reflection betrays only glimpses of the form it represents. The pressure in her chest isn't too bad yet: she can hold out a bit longer.

She studies her shadowy outline. Slivers of moonlight angle their way from the bedroom window and transform into streaky, specular highlights against Avery's sweat-drenched skin.

Something tugs her gaze down onto the faucet. She glares. It's not running.

Check. What if you're wrong?

Her joints start to seize; her chest tightens. Sighing, she nudges the faucet handles and punctuates each push with a whispered count. "One, two, three."

Pressure and pain disappear the next instant. She drags herself over tile, then carpet, and toward the bed. "Please let me just be. I'm tired."

Since you're up, you ever wonder how long it would take for a fish to suffocate after their tank starts leaking? With a bigger tank, we've probably got a few hours left.

Dread settles onto her shoulders and her shuffling ceases. She can feel her thoughts twisting over themselves like a wiggling mass of worms, working to justify—

Go make sure they're alright. It's only the right thing to do.

Compulsive tendrils strike, coiling and wrenching through her body in pain, shivers, and sweat. She clenches her eyes shut and digs her nails into her palms. Just sit with it, me. You can do it. Let it pass.

Let it pass while they're suffocating so, so close to you. So close you could have done something.

It's a mile. That's not clo— no. Stop. Don't reason with it; ignore it.

Not close? Certainly close enough to make it in time to help though, right? Those poor, poor fish: watching their precious source of oxygen leak away. All while you're standing here arguing with yourself.

Avery jams her palms into her eyes, blotting out the moonlight. Her voice comes as a whisper. "I don't need to. They're fine, they're fine."

As long as you're' fine with taking the chance...

Her mind goes blank. The only sound is her curtains drifting in the wind, brushing against the side of her desk. Yet, her body continues to revolt. Fresh sweat beads along her upper lip; damp pajama pants cling to her legs. Are they going to be okay?

Are they? You heard creaking when you were helping that girl...

The memory sweeps her away into a timeless trance, disconnected from her body but somehow still feeling all its discomfort as the memory plays.

Above her, a girl floats in the air engulfed in swirling water. Avery has to keep ahold of her. No matter what. Avery's power is the only thing keeping her from suffocating in the wet, writhing ball.

Behind Avery, metallic pings echo through the now deserted hallway. It's the tank. Creaking and whining under the pressure of water pushing against the glass. Trying to burst free and join the girl.

A screw shoots out of the tank's frame and plinks across the floor a few feet away.

The trance breaks.

Stale, burning air blasts up Avery's throat and out her mouth. She scrambles to her dresser.

Hand inches from the oak handles, black circles squeeze around her vision. She gasps for breath and steadies herself with a hand on the dresser's top. Each lung full of air beats back the circles just a bit more until only a sliver remains.

She rips open the drawer, takes one more deep breath, and snaps on the first pair of socks in sight. It'll only take ten minutes.