They say only about thirty percent of the world's population manifested powers after the Event. Statistics don't mention how many families it tore apart. How many of us were left watching our siblings become extraordinary while we stayed painfully, brutally normal.

My name is Dominique Reyes, and I'm the only one in my family who didn't become a Parallaxer. My older sister Isabella can create doorways between any two shadows. My little brother Marco talks to machines like they're pets. Even my mom developed some kind of emotional resonance ability – she always knows exactly what we're feeling, no matter how well we hide it.

Must be fun for her, constantly sensing my cocktail of envy and shame.

"It's not a competition, Dom," Isabella says, stepping out of my bedroom shadow even though I specifically bought blackout curtains to prevent this. "Everyone's got their own path."

Easy for her to say. She's twenty-three and already making six figures as a "specialized courier" for tech companies. Turns out the ability to instantly transport sensitive materials through shadows is pretty valuable in Silicon Valley. Marco's only fifteen but he's got MIT begging him to enroll early. Something about his ability to "optimize quantum computing through empathetic resonance with artificial intelligence."

Me? I'm twenty, working at Best Buy, and still living at home. But hey, I get a discount on electronics my little brother can sweet-talk into working better than they were designed to.

"I brought Thai food," Isabella says, holding up a bag that probably came from an actual restaurant in Bangkok. "Want to talk about it?"

"About what? How you can literally step through shadows while I can't even get promoted to shift manager? Or how about how Marco got another patent approved yesterday? He's fifteen, Bella. Fifteen."

She sighs, setting down the food. "You know what's funny? Marco's convinced you're the lucky one."

"Right. Because being ordinary is such a blessing."

"Because you still get to be yourself. He has to wear damping headphones just to go to the mall. All those machines screaming for attention, begging him to fix them, optimize them, love them. He hasn't slept through the night since the Event."

I want to stay angry, but guilt creeps in. Last week, I found Marco in the garage at 3 AM, crying while he tried to comfort our old Toyota about its failing transmission. The car's been running perfectly since, but Marco had migraines for days.

"And you?" I ask. "Any downsides to being able to bypass all known security systems and physical limitations?"

"You mean besides BACR constantly trying to recruit me? Or the fact that every criminal organization in the world would love to get their hands on a shadow-walker? Or how about the nightmares about what lives in the spaces between shadows?"

She shudders, and for a moment I see something in her eyes – a darkness that has nothing to do with her powers.

"Last week I made a wrong turn between shadows. Ended up... somewhere else. Somewhere shadows don't work the same way. Took me six hours to find my way back. Mom felt my terror the whole time but couldn't do anything about it."

I didn't know about that. Haven't been around much lately, trying to avoid family dinners where Marco makes the microwave tell jokes and Isabella casually mentions jumping to Paris for lunch.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"Still better than being useless," I mutter, but there's less conviction now.

"You really think you're useless?" She pulls out her phone, shows me a text conversation. It's from Marco: *Can you check on Dom? The house's security system is worried about him. Says he's been staying up late looking at websites about experimental procedures to trigger powers.*

My face burns. "He's got the electronics spying on me now?"

"They do it because they care about you. Not just the machines – all of us. Mom's been feeling your pain for months but didn't want to pressure you. Marco's been trying to give you space while keeping an eye out. And me..." She gestures at the Thai food. "I've been picking up your favorite comfort foods from around the world, hoping you'd talk to me."

"About what? About how it feels to be the family disappointment?"

"About how it feels to be the family anchor." She touches my arm. "Dom, do you know why I always bring you food directly from other countries? Why I don't just order local?"

I shake my head.

"Because you're the only one I trust to tell me if I'm starting to lose touch with the normal world. Marco's half living in machine-space these days. Mom's so tuned into emotions she sometimes forgets about physical needs entirely. But you... you keep us human."

"By being defective?"

"By being normal. By reminding us what we used to be. What most of the world still is." She pulls more containers from the bag. "Like right now – I brought pad thai from Bangkok, green curry from Chiang Mai, and mango sticky rice from this little street cart I found in Phuket. But I need you to tell me if they're actually good, because lately... lately everything from the shadow realm tastes normal to me, and regular food is starting to taste like shadows."

The admission hangs there. I look at my sister – really look at her for the first time in months. There are dark circles under her eyes that no amount of shadow-walking can escape. Her hands shake slightly as she opens the containers.

"Marco can't eat in restaurants anymore," she continues. "Too many desperate machines begging for attention. Mom can't watch movies – feels every actor's emotions like they're real. But you can still experience the world the way it's meant to be experienced. That's not nothing, Dom."

I want to argue, but the smell of real Thai food hits me, and my stomach growls. "The pad thai first," I say finally. "Let's see if your shadow-jumping affected the noodle texture."

She smiles, relieved. We eat in silence for a while, me describing every flavor, her taking notes. Eventually, Marco wanders in, drawn by the smell of food and the promise of normal human conversation. He's wearing his industrial-grade headphones, but I can still hear faint electronic whining from every device in the house.

"The microwave says you skipped breakfast again," he says, stealing a spring roll.

"Tell it to mind its own cooking times," I reply, but there's no heat in it.

Mom appears in the doorway next, probably drawn by the complex emotional dynamics. She looks tired – she's always tired these days, carrying everyone's feelings – but she smiles at the sight of all of us together.

"The curry's getting cold," I say, pulling out another chair. "And someone needs to tell me if Isabella's really been shadow-walking to Thailand or if she's just hitting up the place down the street."

"Actually," Isabella says, looking sheepish, "I could use help with that too. The shadows... they've started feeling more real than the places they connect to. Sometimes I'm not sure where I actually got the food from."

"The dumplings last week were definitely from Chen's around the corner," I tell her. "No way those were from Shanghai."

"Really?" She looks relieved and worried at the same time. "I could have sworn..."

"Trust me. I'm the normal one, remember? Regular human taste buds, no shadow influence."

She nods, scribbling another note. Marco takes off his headphones long enough to try some pad thai, while mom just sits with us, probably enjoying the momentary peace in our emotional atmosphere.

They're still extraordinary, and I'm still ordinary. But maybe, just maybe, they need my ordinary as much as I envied their extraordinary.

"Hey Dom," Marco says suddenly, headphones back on. "The TV wants to know if you're staying for movie night. It says it'll run at optimal picture settings if you do."

I look at my siblings – one losing herself to shadows, one drowning in machine noise – and our mother, who carries the weight of all our feelings.

"Yeah," I say. "Someone needs to make sure we're watching it right."