LITMIR.BIZ

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and pushes her office chair back. “The last time I fought a vision or the last time a vision won?” she asks softly.

      “Both,” I say after a moment of hesitation.

      She waves her fingers in the air almost dismissively. “I fought one this morning. It was small. No big deal.” She removes her glasses now and sticks the end of one earpiece in her mouth, her teeth worrying the plastic with audible clicks. “The last time a vision beat me was ten years ago,” she whispers as though confessing to a crime.

      “Ten years?” I echo in the same hallowed whisper. And I thought I was doing well going on almost six months.

      “It gets easier,” Sierra says, reaching out for my hand. “You’ll grow stronger.”

      I nod, though my throat feels tight and I can’t actually speak.

      “Hard one today?” Sierra asks, and her thumb makes circles on my hand.

      I look at her and I know she can see the answer in my eyes. I always come in to see her on tough, draining days when blocking a foretelling takes everything out of me. Some days we don’t even talk; I simply sit and share the same space with the only person in my life who understands the struggle I face every day.

      She hesitates and I’m afraid she’s going to ask if I won my fight or not. I don’t know how I’ll answer her. “Your teens are the hardest time,” she finally says, her thumb still stroking the back of my hand. “Life is so full of things to pull your attention away from your defenses, your body is still changing, hormones are raging.”

      Oh yes, please talk about puberty right now, I think, forcing myself not to roll my eyes. I do pull my hand back though, and cross my arms over my chest.

      At least she didn’t ask. She usually assumes I won. Because I almost always do. Maybe she trusts that I would tell her if I didn’t. And she should be able to. More guilt.

      But ten years? I really am crappy at this.

      “Things will calm down once you finish college and can withdraw from the world more,” Sierra says calmly, evenly. Like she didn’t just sentence me to a life of seclusion.

      “Sierra,” I say after several long seconds of silence. “Would it really be so bad if we just let them come?” Her eyes narrow slightly, but I continue. “Not all the time, just, like when I’m alone in my room at home.” I don’t remember a lot from when I didn’t fight, but the foretellings I did get were mostly little things. Things I didn’t care about. “If I don’t do anything about it, of course,” I add when Sierra’s lips tighten.

      She leans forward, looking up at me with dark brown eyes that look so much like Mom’s. “I know you think you can do that, Charlotte, but believe me, the temptation will become too great. You’ll want to change things. And that’s not a bad thing; it’s because you’re a good person and you have a desire to help people.” She furrows her brows and then she’s not meeting my gaze anymore. “You don’t know how bad the visions can get. Not even you.”

      Not even me? Not even the girl who got her father killed trying to save her aunt? How much more devastating than that could it possibly get?

      But then, maybe seeing a murdered teenager is worse. It makes me wonder what Sierra has seen that puts that haunted look in her eyes.

      I want to ask more, but I’m not sure how I can without revealing what I saw today. And I just don’t want to. Don’t want to admit how much I suck.

      I stand there silently for so long that after a few minutes, Sierra squeezes my hand, turns back to her computer, and resumes working.

      I wander over to the shelf that houses the oldest books. With my arms folded, I scan the spines and titles—as close as Sierra ever lets me get. My eyes catch on a cracked leather spine printed with the words REPAIRING THE FRACTURED FUTURE.

      Air slips slowly out between my teeth with a tiny hiss. This. This is what I need. I glance at Sierra, but she’s as focused as she was when I first came in. My fingers walk slowly forward, sneaking the same way I might tiptoe down a hallway. Closer. Closer.

      My index finger hooks around the top of the spine and I pull slowly, tipping the book down. A whisper of the leather covers rubbing together makes me freeze, but after a few seconds I let the spine lean all the way into my palm.

      Now I just have to pull it out and—

      “Charlotte.”

      Disappointment wells up in my throat. She didn’t snap—she never does—but that edge of “you know better than this” in her voice makes me want to melt into a puddle of shame. With my teeth tightly clenched, I push the book back where it belongs—at least she won’t know exactly which book I wanted—and turn to look at her.

      Sierra sighs and rises from her chair. She comes close and puts an arm around my shoulder, deftly steering me toward the door. “You know you’re not ready,” she whispers.

      “I think you’re wrong,” I say defiantly, proud of myself for voicing what I’ve thought for at least two years.

      “I’m erring on the safe side this time,” Sierra says, leaning her head close enough to touch mine. “The last time I didn’t watch you closely enough, this entire family paid for it. You don’t need more temptation in your life.”

      And without another word, she pushes me the last few inches through the door.

      By the time I turn around, the door is closed and even as I raise my hand to turn the knob, I hear the unmistakable sound of the lock turning.

       Great.

      Maybe I should have told her. Now I have to decide what to do all by myself.

      And I don’t even know where to start.

      

      It’s all over the news the next morning.

      Her body is covered with a white drape, and the reporter is rambling on about her injuries, but even his gruesome descriptions can’t compare to the actual sight. The one I saw only yesterday.

      Mom’s hand is clenched around a mug of coffee, but she hasn’t lifted it to her mouth since she turned the television on ten minutes ago. “Who could do this?” she finally whispers after what feels like hours.

      Unfortunately, despite the vision, that’s a question I can’t answer. Visions are fickle that way—sometimes they give you the important information, and sometimes they simply … don’t.

      Sierra walks into the noticeably tense kitchen. “What’s going on?” she asks, looking between Mom and me and not seeming to notice that the TV is on despite its high volume. She’s like that, totally unaware of some things while being hyperaware of others. Probably because she’s constantly on guard for visions.

      I guess I’ll be like that someday too.

      “A teenage girl was killed at the high school last night,” Mom whispers, still staring horrified at the television. “Throat sliced right open.”

      Sierra’s head swings to me and she stares with questions shining in her eyes. I feel like I did when I was six. I don’t know how she knew then, but she did.

      And she knows now.

      Her expression evokes the same awful guilt, even though this time I did nothing. Which makes me feel even more guilty.

      Sierra fills her coffee cup with marked carefulness. She begins to leave the kitchen, but just before she disappears around the doorway she flicks her head, gesturing for me to join her.

      I stall.

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