Night fell for Boone, a moonless and quiet warm blanket of dark. Somewhere in the woods, a wolf pulled at the spoiled meat of a corpse left unattended. Finding the flesh to be far too rotten to be worth the meal, it relinquished the arm and padded onwards into the black, leaving behind the hand that once clutched a briefcase and now clutched only air. The wolf saw the orange glow of town in the distance, and dared not approach the land the light held. Streetlights were few and far between, each surrounded by a small maelstrom of moths and flies. Street by street, porch lights flickered off like the fireflies drifting through the air. Of the houses that still remained lit, six of them saw boys grappling questions of destiny and their places in the world—places that were undergoing renegotiation. They saw questions of heroism pondered alongside questions of danger, questions of saving others and helping one's self… questions left unanswered as sleep inevitably closed in.

In one of those houses, Wade sat on his bed, idly tossing the Protectionizer back and forth between his hands. He shot it like a basketball overhand and it flew right into a trashbin across his room with a clang! He then got up and walked across the room, grabbing the bin and shaking it. Trash shifted and settled over the device until Wade smiled, satisfied that the thing was hidden well enough.

In another, Ronnie removed his ring and began to chew a wad of chewing gum. As his eyes reverted from their grey color to vibrant blue, he shut the book he'd been reading, "A People's History of the United States," and spat the wad of gum back into his hands. He combined ring and gum, sticking it to the underside of the desk in his room before climbing towards his bed.

In yet a third home, Shaun approached his bed and stashed his Invisibility Plug under the mattress. After climbing into his bed, he decided he should check on it again, just to make sure it was secure. Thirty seconds later, he felt he should check it once more—in case it had slipped out. After five miuntes of back-and-forth, he got back up, took the device, and went to sleep with it clutched in his hand beneath his pillow.

In a fourth, Skinny absent-mindedly stashed his Thought-Encunciator in his closet, eyes distant. He replayed the conversations with his friend over and over again in his head, simultaneously feeling the need to help but knowing that he was beginning to lose influence… if he had ever truly had any to begin with.

In a fifth, Logan sat in his bedroom, cross-legged, tending to a bloodied nose with his left hand while writing with his right. His face was marked by no emotion at all, instead showing only a fresh bruise that stained his cheek a sensitive purple-blue. Near his feet sat three glowing batteries. The first was orange, the second, brown, and the third, green. His pen traced precise letters on the page:

Orange - Rage

Brown - Resentment

Green -

Logan paused for a moment, before updating the final line.

Green - Ambition

He then sat back and scratched at his chin, deep in thought. The watch is the problem, he reminded himself, racking his mind for creative solutions before shutting his book and preparing to turn in for the evening. Just then, an idea ocurred to him. He slipped on his shoes and tread outwards into the dark, flashlight in hand. He journeyed into the woods behind his house, a wolf howl in the distance sending goosebumps rippling up along the back of his neck. Bugs nipped at his neck. Skittering feet nearby set Logan jumping back and swinging his flashlight around, searching for the source. He knew the trail he walked well enough to navigate by dark, but it was transformed into something terrifying under the cloak of night. He decided he'd push his luck no further and finally arrived to a sufficiently-distinct-looking tree. He paused before it and closed his eyes. It'll be here. Right here. On the other side of this tree. That's where it'll be. Each repetition granted him more and more certainty, more and more confidence in his idea. Anticipation hanging heavily over him, he then opened his eyes and began to creep his way around the tree, tracing his flashlight along the ground. His breath caught as his beam, traveling along the dirt, suddenly lit up the side of a box stashed behind the tree. He knelt to open it, suddenly no longer caring about the dark woods surrounding him. He opened the lid and gasped, for there had been a thousand objects he expected, and one he did not.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

In the sixth and final home, Parker took off his watch and placed it in a drawer with a few other similar-looking watches. He then took out an old and worn copy of H.G. Wells's "The Time Machine" and switched off the room's light, reading by way of a small reading light hanging off the book. It was a book he'd read when he was too young to understand most of it, but, when he rediscovered it sitting in his closet last night, he knew he would simply have to revisit it.

In the dim light of the hallway, Nora Campbell frowned at the door to her son's room, seeing the faint glow under the doorframe. Her fist hovered in front of the door, preparing to knock, but she simply couldn't drive herself to commit to it. She had a lot to mull over tonight and figured that the extra questions could wait until tomorrow.

She returned to the kitchen where she saw a plate of food left for her… she was supposed to have been home in time for dinner tonight. With a sigh, she threw it in the microwave and watched it cook in the dim yellow light. As the chicken breast and rice spun hypnotically, Nora planned how to best confront her son about the hoodie. Sure, it was purchased after the robbery, but a few details felt sour to Nora. First, the Campbells weren't doing any repainting at all… bothered by that fact, Nora had even called up the parents of Parker's closest friends. She'd gotten the answer she feared most: none had any sort of repainting going on. So why had Parker lied to Tom? Second, ignoring the hard-to-accept fact of one person teleporting out of thin air, the group size of the people who interrupted the robbery, six, lined up with Parker's usual hangout crew. Their apparent age also lined up. Cooper had later recollected that one of those newcomers had been black, just like Parker's friend Jackson. Nora's frown deepened. She felt a sense of connection to the food, trapped and heating up in its small confining space. She felt like she needed some fresh air.

She opened a window in the kitchen and started rummaging around the drawers there, trying to find her stash of cigarettes. "I moved them," said a voice from behind. Nora wheeled around to find Parker standing in the kitchen, holding an empty glass. He refilled it with water at the fridge. "We missed you at dinner," he said as he took ice cubes from the freezer and set them down in his glass. The microwave beeped as it shut off, leaving the two in silence. The ice cubes clanked softly in his glass.

"Something came up at work," Nora said. "A robbery. I need a smoke. Where are they?"

"I thought you quit?" Parker said.

"I did. I just need them in… special circumstances. I'm not going to ask you again, where'd you put them?"

Parker sighed. "Under the sink, behind the box of trash bags."

As she rummaged under the sink, she spoke. "Have a seat? There's something I'd want to talk to you about."

Parker sat at the kitchen table and sipped at his water, watching his mother smoke out the open kitchen window. "Earlier today, you were at Tom's," she began. "What for?"

Parker's eyes fell to his lap and he drew his hands in. He swallowed, momentarily silent. Nora's eyes had been watching him like a mother would, but suddenly the police officer's gaze took over, analyzing body language and posture. His was drawin in, reticent. Guilt? She shook off the cold, analytical view and let some softness return.

"We were gonna play paintball in the woods," Parker said. "I know you hate us playing with guns of any kind and figured word might get back to you if we told him so we lied to Tom."

"The hoodie you bought… did you know it was worn by a robber at Johnson's General not even a half hour before you got it?"

Parker's eyes flashed wide. "No ma'am…"

"Ma'am?" Nora asked, eyebrows raised.

"Mom," Parker corrected.

"Do you still have it?"

"Have what?"

"The hoodie?"

Parker nodded, biting his lip. Nora exhaled another puff of smoke out the window and shut it, ashing out her cigarette in the sink. She then reached under the sink to find a rubber glove and a plastic bag.

"Do me a favor, go bag it up for me? Forensics will want it for evidence."

Parker nodded and headed off towards his bedroom, Nora watching him go. She suddenly didn't feel all that hungry. She still had no idea what really happened out there in that general store, but one thing was clear. It didn't even take the interrogator in her to see it… it was the mother's gaze that knew her son was lying. She'd seen those same tells throughout his young life, and it pained her to see them resurface again on this nightmare of a day. The paintball was a clever excuse, admittedly, but it wasn't the truth. For some reason, even though he'd bought it after the robbery, Parker was lying about the hoodie. The question was, why?