Sam sat at his desk, his heart thumping a frantic drumbeat.
He couldn't bench-press a car or fly over the suburbs, but as of last night, he was officially "enhanced."
He looked down at his hands. To anyone else, they were just ordinary, ink-stained 14 year-old hands. But Sam knew the truth.
When the bell finally rang and Ryan slid into the seat next to him.
"Dude, get over here," Sam hissed. "I have to show you something. For real."
Ryan leaned in, eyes narrowed. "Is this about that weird video you sent this morning?"
"Yeah," Sam whispered, his eyes darting toward the teacher.
They huddled in the back corner of the classroom, using a tall book as a shield.
Ryan looked skeptical. "You better not be pulling my leg again."
"I'm not. Just watch."
Sam held his right hand out, palm up. He squinted, concentrating until a tiny vein throbbed on his forehead. He visualized a breeze—not a gale, just a persistent tickle of moving molecules.
Fffffft.
A microscopic stream of air hissed from his index finger. It was just enough to make a single lock of Ryan's hair dance for a second before falling flat.
Ryan blinked, his nose inches from Sam's fingertip. "Do it again."
Sam pushed harder, his face turning a soft shade of pink. Another tiny puff—like the ghost of a birthday candle—hit Ryan's cheek.
"Is that... air?" Ryan whispered, his voice thick with awe.
"Yeah," Sam panted, dropping his hand.
"It won't knock over a building. It won't even tip a soda can. But look." Sam placed a dried leaf from the classroom's dying spider plant on the desk.
He aimed and "fired." The leaf shivered, scooted half an inch, and stopped.
"It's probably the weakest superpower in history," Sam admitted, feeling a sudden wave of sheepishness. "Basically useless."
Ryan flicked the leaf back to him, a wide, toothy grin spreading across his face. "Are you kidding? You're a human fan, Sam! Next time we're stuck in a stuffy assembly or it's ninety degrees on the blacktop, you're gonna be a legend."
Sam looked at his hand and smiled. It wasn't much, but it was his.
"Plus," Ryan added, leaning in conspiratorially, "who said it can't get better with practice."
Sam's eyes lit up. "I hadn't even thought of that."
....
The sun was already high when Malisa finally stirred. She reached for the empty side of the bed, her fingers brushing cold, wrinkled sheets. Drake was still out there, somewhere on the dark Missouri backroads.
As she sat up, the room tilted violently. A wave of nausea hit her so hard she had to white-knuckle the headboard. She pressed a palm to her forehead; she was burning up, her skin slick with a feverish sweat.
"Ryan?" she called out, her voice coming out as a dry rasp.
"Ryan, honey, can you bring me some water?"
Silence.
She forced herself to stand, her legs feeling like heavy lead pipes. She checked Ryan's room—empty. Panic began to flare in her chest, hotter than the fever. She stumbled down the stairs and found a scrap of paper on the counter: Gone to school. See you later. Love, Ryan.
"No, no, no," she whispered. The news had been getting worse for days. The world was falling apart, and her son was out in the open.
She limped toward Daymon's room, pounding on the wood.
"Daymon! Daymon!"
"Yeah?" a muffled voice answered.
"I'm sick." She leaned her forehead against the door frame, struggling to breathe. "I can't... I need to get to him."
Daymon must have heard the tremor in her voice. He was at the door in seconds. "Get who? Dad?" he asked as he swung the door open.
When he saw her—pale, shaking, and barely standing—he reached out to catch her.
"Stop," she wheezed, waving him back.
"Don't touch me. I'm sick, and you can't catch what I've got. I need you to go to the school. Get Ryan. It's not safe out there anymore."
Daymon's face went pale. "Okay. Should I stop at the pharmacy? Get you some medicine?"
"Yeah," Malisa said, her eyes closing as she leaned against the wall. "And bring me some water before you go. I have to lie down."
...
Later that afternoon, Sam and Ryan found themselves back in the same classroom, though the atmosphere had shifted from academic boredom to stifling tension.
The room was so silent that the hum of the fluorescent lights felt like a physical weight.
It was a math assessment, and Mr. Henderson patrolled the aisles like a hawk, his shoes clicking rhythmically on the linoleum.
Sam stared at question twelve—a word problem that looked less like math and more like an insurmountable mountain.
To his left, Ryan was gnawing on his pencil eraser, looking equally defeated.
Seeing Mr. Henderson retreat to the back of the room to sharpen a pencil, Sam saw his opening. He rested his chin on his left hand and aimed his right toward Ryan.
Focusing every ounce of his will on his index finger, he released a steady, invisible stream of air.
Fsssssssssssss.
It sounded like a slow leak in a tire. Ryan's head snapped up, eyes darting wildly until they landed on Sam.
Sam winked, his face flushing from the effort of maintaining the "gust." Ryan smothered a laugh into a fake cough.
Emboldened, Sam shifted his aim toward Sarah Jenkins, the class perfectionist. She had a precarious tower of three erasers balanced on the corner of her desk. Sam pointed his pinky—the "precision" finger—and gave a sharp, concentrated flick of air.
The top eraser wobbled, slid, and landed with a soft thud on her paper. Sarah jumped, looking around in confusion. Sam immediately tucked his hands away, feigning intense concentration.
Ryan was practically vibrating, trying to hold back a belly laugh.
"I call that the Ghost Breeze," Sam whispered.
"It's the most annoying power ever," Ryan grinned back. "I love it."
Sam smiled. He still couldn't do the math question any faster, but for the first time, a math test actually felt entertaining.
The brief moment of levity vanished instantly. Just as they turned back to their papers, a sound vibrated through the floorboards—a rhythmic skitter-click, skitter-click.
The entire classroom froze. It wasn't the sound of a normal pest; it was heavy, synchronized, and fast.
"Mr. Henderson?" Sarah whispered, her voice trembling.
The teacher didn't answer. He was staring at the ventilation grate near the floor. A pair of glowing, amber eyes peered out from the darkness, followed by a snout the size of a dog's, tipped with serrated yellow incisors.