I had the permit midway through November. The snow chains I'd helped put on the wheels ground over slippery roads; it wasn't easy to steer. Pale light sleet fell from the sky, covering most of what there was to see.

Gordon released a deep breath when I turned near to the school.

"Carpark looks busy. Get out here?" He noted another fifteen minutes' practice behind the wheel in the small logbook. Forty-three hours and ten minutes to go. "The weather's not ideal. Don't walk back, I'll pick you up, it's freezing..."

I let him back into the driver's seat and got down from the truck, drawing my jacket hood below the sleet, hands in pockets. Cold grey weather. People ignored me; I was enough myself to know that the colours weren't as vivid as they could be; I saw my mother four days ago and put an arm around her shoulders for a moment and I thought she smiled once.

Bodhi's ink-black hair stood out even at a distance; it seemed to have been last week her suspension was over. I'd noticed changing faces in her group, another girl added besides Anova Dawn, a boy with blue-dyed hair and a guitar often slung over his back, replacing Jason and a brown-haired boy. Distant. I walked behind a row of parked cars. Gordon had already vanished on the road. A pale-leafed withering tree shivered behind its enclosure. The wind was harsh and the frost slippery underfoot. I looked down; try to remember words and remind that rhymes are especially easy to echo. Cars slid loudly into position and people yelled to their friends. The ice over a black puddle cracked below my feet; a low-slung brown car was frosted over beside me. I ran a finger along the metal to draw a line of melting water.

It was a second after the loud shriek of a machine out of control that I looked up. Scenes flashed, vividly colored for once: aside, distant, short ink-black hair above an electric blue parka. Imogen Winthrop's heavy maroon van zigzagging on the icy road, wheels screaming. Two purple-gloved hands tore a black wheel back and forth—and above them, Imogen's face, white as birch bark, hurtling toward me.

And there was no chance to run.

I remember something grabbing me by the shoulders, then pulling away. Something struck the front bar of the van, something pale. Imogen spun away, red hair and black-jacketed shoulders behind a black wheel, slowing in motion, a crunch when she drove through an empty boot and hidden when a yellowed airbag blew up in her face—

We were three cars away from the black marks on the road and the crash. Bodhi Cullen pushed me away from her.

"Im! Imogen, you're breathing in there, right? No bleeding on me—" Suddenly Bodhi was wrenching open the maroon door; pulling out Imogen Winthrop by her jacketed arm and seeing that she could stand on her feet. She wasn't cut as far as I could see, not hurt, none of us harmed, white and tottering in her steps.

"You were on the other side," I said. "Other side."

Had there been black finger-shaped dents in that smashed front fender? Impossible. Imogen swayed back and forth and there were other people coming, too many by far, fair-haired Erin, the boy from the maths class, faces—

"—Yeah, being a fucking superhero, that's what I've done now!" Bodhi dragged Imogen back toward me—she grabbed my wrist and raised our hands in the air, a victory gesture as if she'd won some prize— "Saving Xavier's life here—hey, Imogen, might want to take notes here for the school paper—"

I saw Monty Black's face in the crowd: he stared only at Bodhi, as if he disbelieved something in his sight.

"Oh my god," Imogen repeated. "Oh my god. I almost killed you. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry, oh my god I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. Oh my god, Dad's going to ground me forever and never going to let me in a car again as long as I live. Oh my god, I wrecked Seung Ji's ride. And the van. And nearly you. Hey, you know I didn't mean to kill you, all right? I'm so, so sorry, X-guy..." Her freckled face crumpled together; she almost cried.

The van would have crushed me a moment later...

I could remember Imogen's story in the graveyard, warmth by the green vines. "I believe you." Bodhi let me go.

"Jeez, reporter-girl, where's your notes?" she said. "Heroic Bodhi fucking rescues people, even him—when interviewed, the heroine of the day flung back her curls and stated it was easy—"

"Noted especially for her modesty, that shy, humble, Bodhi Cullen—" Imogen barked out half a laugh in her shaking throat.

"—Saved Xavier Swan from like being massively crushed from shoulder to knees, blood spatter would've been at least two-foot radius, probably smash open his head from the car behind too with brains over Hari's Mustang, guts spread on your fender, crack open his ribs and have his heart gush open—"

Imogen looked paler and ill. Erin came running up between everyone crowding in, small and fair and very quick—

She pointed to a boy in the group. "Yoshiro, I want you to go to the nurse's office right now and tell him what happened. Bronwyn, can you keep everyone else away...p-please?" I saw them do as she said. She looked up at me, stuttering only a little, determination shining out of her face for once, like the time she had helped Bodhi out of class. "Xavier, are you hurt? You should sit down...you s-should be in shock at some point... Bodhi?" Then she placed a hand on her friend's waist. "It's all right, Imogen. Do you feel any pain? You should...p-probably not relieve what happened immediately—" She looked up at Bodhi, surprisingly vicious for a moment out of wide blue eyes. Then she shook her head. "Bodhi—you did something very brave and good..."

"You were too fast," I told Bodhi. I wiped a hand on my forehead; strangely sweaty. "Impossible. It wasn't possible. Over there."

"Of course it was possible!" she said; she raised a hand as if she wanted to slap me. Then lowered it. "My freaking stupid brother won't let me join the track team. Bodhi Cullen is exactly this fucking good, bitches!"

Someone cheered her on, though Bronwyn was herding people away from staring.

"And I saved your life," Bodhi said, more quietly. Erin tended to bruises on Imogen, gentle with her friend. She stepped close, watching me, pale face unflushed by it all. "Doesn't that mean I own you?"

"No. It doesn't." I had both my hands on her blue shoulders—pushed her away. She smiled.

"Worth a try."

Then Kovalics came—the school nurse. He forced us up; called a county ambulance; and someone must have called Gordon and have him turn around and return, for I saw him running across the school carpark.

—

They took us to the hospital; Erin stayed in the ambulance, comforting Imogen; I didn't speak. Not dead, unhurt, not—breaking insane.

"I think he might have a concussion or, like, something," Bodhi said, "I saw his neck kind of jerking when I pulled him out of the way..."

"Bodhi, what have you done now?" I felt my hands twitch at the cold voice. Jon Cullen still made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, still cold, wearing blue surgical scrubs this time and transparent gloves over his pale hands— Staring down at his sister, dark eyes instead of gold, white-faced and frozen. "A police escort and an ambulance this time."

"Hey, this time I was the freakin' hero, big brother." She stared down at the ground beyond the ambulance door; then she pulled on my arm, and dragged me out beside her. "Saved his life when Im Winthrop tried to run him over! I'm the good guy! This is him, Jon, Chief Swan's kid, check him over if you like—"

"I don't want anything. I don't need anything. Not from you." Bodhi's touch felt distant; I wrenched away from it. "Imogen or Erin. You go to them instead." Two medics and a driver; Gordon; Bodhi; her brother; Imogen and Erin behind; a second doctor I'd never seen before; people crowded in the hospital's reception. "Not me. I don't need anything."

Doctor Cullen's expression did not change. "Lucas, take the boy to a bed. I will examine Miss Winthrop. Bodhi, take a seat and amuse yourself quietly. Thank you, Robert, Paula—now let us not turn this hospital into a circus." I saw him shoo Erin away; her right hand flew, birdlike, to cover her mouth.

"Can't you get me out of here? I'm unhurt." Gordon was still there; I sat on the hospital bed, shoes still on, staining the white sheets. "I don't want to be here, I shouldn't have to be here—have me discharged. Please." The words were shards like ice—if I left them unsaid or went below the water, I'd splinter—see things I couldn't see. Put it all back for now.

"You need help," he said. "I was worried." He reached out a hand to me, but stopped midway again.

"Just leave me alone for an hour. An hour. Then I'll be all right. If I was with my mother it'd be even easier— Just need a chance to think things through—talk to myself—calm down. I didn't do anything, I haven't done anything, it wasn't my fault this time. What can I say to convince you? Tell me what I have to say—don't I get a chance to make up my own mind? Plenty of car accidents every day. It's not the first time something bad's happened. Here nothing bad happened, that's the whole full point. I've got to leave with you."

"Calm down and listen to yourself," Gordon said. He was probably right. I didn't think about what had just happened—

"I'm saying I'm quite well. There's no need to keep me here. Let's go, Dad."

He put out his hands to stop me. "They need to see you. Stress—shock—you need to let them do their jobs. Hang in there, okay? Take the day off school."

"Not Doctor Cullen. Someone else than him. Maybe Doctor Charles."

"Why? You don't know him." Gordon drew in the corners of his mouth. "His sister saved your life today."

"I know. Remind me to thank her later. It is irrational. I suppose you only see that as a symptom—but I don't need anything." I sat up, cross-legged, straight-backed. The words still came far too quickly. "Like I've said. Repeatedly, with synonyms. Can't you listen?"

"If you want to be alone to collect your thoughts, I can wait outside," he offered. "Breathe. Don't worry. They won't keep you long."

I was alone, sitting straight-backed, when a nurse wheeled in a small trolley. She was quite tall; full-figured; I saw a broad dark brown face below a mass of curly hair starting to grey. Jon Cullen was shorter, I remembered, obviously shorter than Gordon that time before. A nametag called her LIA ANDERS. There was a full syringe among her supplies.

"Roll up your sleeve," she said, "doctor's orders."

"Which doctor?" I was calmer, now; folded my arms carefully. "I'm not interested, thanks. I was uninjured."

She shook her head. "Doctor Cullen's orders," she said. "There's no need to make a fuss. Honestly! My son was braver about shots when he was five. Hold out your arm so I can swab it first. You don't want to make me call security."

"Am I insufficiently coherent for an early discharge?" I spoke more slowly; having had a moment to put myself back together. "Can you tell me why I'm still here?"

"This is to calm you down for now. You're stressed; it's understandable; the doctor will make sure it's nothing worse than that. Now hold still and stop fussing, or I'll have to call extra help. That's it. Relax. Not so bad, was it?"

It's not the needle; foreign substance damaging your blood.

"I'm not supposed to be here long. You'll discharge me soon?" It wouldn't have started to have an effect yet. There was a small bead of blood on my arm, covered by a translucent plaster.

"If the doctor says so." The pager on her belt beeped; she looked down. "Get some rest, kid."

It was still. I drew up my knees to my chest, learning against the bedhead, making sure to sit up. I was tired; it made you rest when you didn't want to rest. Made thoughts run slower. I didn't close my eyes. Swing down from the bed and try walking away, moving as if you'd every right to go. Yet I couldn't. Path of least resistance, and you wait for the best moment to run away. Like my mother. It was grey and soft and slow, and I wasn't any more as worried as I should have been.

Jon Cullen; nobody else in the room. He was fair, his hair scarcely a shade below Erin's; he was paler than her, pale as his sister. Taller than her. Aside from their identical pallor there was little in his features akin to her, bar a suggestion about his cheekbones. He wore blue-black circles below his eyes. His glance was dark, not amber-gold.

He reached his right hand close toward me, and then dropped it back to his side.

"I frighten you. Why is that?"

I had to speak slowly. "I didn't enjoy my last experience in a hospital."

Your sister does impossible things. A fair man and three women, one very pale with tarred hair...

"I see," he said. I could not tell at all what he meant by that; probably not even if the world spun faster. "My sister worries your bones were jarred. So I am going to have X-rays taken, and if you feel sufficiently calm you will be discharged."

The reason why I wasn't hit was because she pulled me out of the way. People probably shouldn't be able to move that fast.

The doctor stood close and still. "Mrs Cullen spoke to me before. She wanted me to be sent away, confined somewhere else," I said.

"That's irrelevant here and now. If you wish to know the story in brief: my dear wife has a tendency to be overprotective, and in turn my more volatile sister resents her guardianship. You're of an age to accept or reject offers made in a charitable spirit."

"Rejecting." There was nothing to be made of him but ice. I looked down at my hands, woven over each other. He was, perhaps, the head of the family.

"Your medical record describes you as mildly schizophrenic," Doctor Cullen said. "You have no blood-borne diseases, you've been slightly undernourished, and your dental issues are improving. You've undergone physical labour; not a damaging point, for most of the youth of today are chronically lazy. You've been under recent mental stress."

"All in all, you're going to let me go."

"Why would you suppose otherwise?" he asked. Slightly bared teeth flashed a blinding white.

—