I hefted the cardboard box aside, setting atop a stack of three others I'd already searched. The stack wobbled for a moment before settling. I turned away and opened the only box left before me. Of the small mountain of boxes in our basement, it was the last. The pile had remained as it was for so long for a simple reason – every box in it was filled with Mom's possessions.

Dad hadn't had the heart to box up the book room; he could lock the door and forget about it. The rest of Mom's things, anything in sight, anything we would see and be reminded of her from, went in a box. Her presence had dwindled to a handful of pictures, two in my room, one on the mantle, and one in Dad's room. A few other small items remained here and there, but the rest had gone into storage.

I tugged open the cardboard flaps and caught a puff of dust straight in the face. I inhaled reflexively and started coughing, my lungs and mouth full of the dry taste of age.

The bug twitched, shifting on its perch on Dad's workbench as it sensed my distress.

"It's- fuh-fine," I wheezed, waving a hand at it. "St-hah-stay there!"

It folded its many wings and continued to stand vigil. I gave it a long, flat look, daring it to do something.

I could still feel its presence. The… connection had grown slowly over the previous day, and I'd finally noticed it when I went to bed. A little point of light in the back of my head that I could reach out and touch.

I hated it. It was intrusive. Alien. Yet another thing forcing its way into my mind. And yet… It felt familiar. It was… it was like picking up an old book that I hadn't read in a long time. The first pages were unfamiliar, but by the second chapter, I would remember the words like I'd read them yesterday.

I knew how to control it. Remembered how to control it. It took less than a thought to move it if we were connected. What I desired, it would do. There were other things there as well. Useless, piecemeal memories. What it liked to eat – raw meat. How it disliked the rain. That it would molt again and grow another mouth in its adult form. And not one of those memories explained how to get it to go away, or how to cut away the knot in the back of my mind that sounded like cicadas screaming and tasted the wind with its skin and go back to being alone in my head.

Finally, I forced myself back to the search. A Christmas sweater nested at the top of the box, an abomination of metallic green and red so hideous that I had trouble believing it was anything but a gag gift. I tossed it away and started pawing through the rest of the box's contents.

Dad had dumped her clothes in as fast as he could, and I was left to search through the tangle. Two more sweaters, a pair of ragged jeans, two pairs of mismatched socks, and a single fingerless glove joined the first sweater on the floor.

Was there nothing else? I dug down deep, not even bothering to examine the rest of the clothes. There had to be something. This was it. There was nothing else to look through.

My fingers touched cardboard, and I grabbed blindly at whatever article of clothing sat at the bottom of the box, pulling it free with a frustrated groan.

A gray t-shirt unfolded in front of me. The front read simply: Brockton U- Class of 95.

There had to be more. I glanced down into the box again. And… unless I wanted more old clothes, I was out of luck.

With a sigh, I started packing clothes back into the box. The Brockton U shirt remained in my lap until everything else was back in. Slowly, carefully, I lifted it to my face and inhaled.

I breathed deeply, searching for her scent, for any trace of the woman who'd worn it.

It tasted like dust and old clothes and musty basement.

I stuffed it under the Christmas sweater and closed the box.

If I'd done this two days ago, before I'd visited her grave, before the bugs and my finger and all the insanity, I'd have kept the shirt. I'd probably wear it as a sleeping shirt. It would be my way of remembering her, of staying close to her, and Dad would never have to see it.

Now… I couldn't believe it, couldn't reconcile the woman who'd graduated in 1995 with the same woman who opened her palm and made me drink the blood. The same woman who had kept too many secrets from her family. Who'd had powers. Who'd played with my memories and made me forget.

I threw the other boxes back into a teetering pile in the corner of the basement and left. The bug fluttered up to land on my shoulder as I climbed the stairs, and I did my best to ignore it.

One thing at a time. Mom, then the bugs.

Returning to the book room brought a brief surge of emotion, but I ignored that too. I wasn't sure what I was feeling anymore, and it was just easier not to. Feeling meant having to dissect the tangle inside me, and that burden, that strain was one I didn't need at the moment.

For all my attempts to ignore it though, one thing bled through loud and clear.

Panic. It throbbed through me, so strong that my resolve was ridiculous in the face of it. It was that that had my hands clenched around the grips on my crutches. A constant, escalating fear that made me want to laugh hysterically, because I was trying to figure things out, trying to hide behind the label of superpowers, when I was teetering on the edge of some terrible precipice.

I didn't know what that fall would look or feel like, and I had the unpleasant feeling that I was too unlucky to actually go insane. But there would be a fall.

I leaned against Mom's desk, propping my crutches to the side. Slowly, I let my gaze sweep over the room. My search today had begun four hours ago when Dad had left for work. I'd canvassed the rest of the house, looking through everything of Mom's for a clue.

The day before, when I'd first met the bug, I'd gone through the shelves, poring over the books for something- anything that could be a lead. The drawers on Mom's desk were still ajar from where I'd pulled them out and inspected the contents. Stacks of books that I thought might have meant something were in towers about the room.

None of them, not a one had held any clue. Literary criticism, the classics, dog-eared feminist theory paperbacks, old poetry, dead white authors, books on growing bonsai and cacti and mushrooms, huge coffee table slabs about famous artists, dissertations and documents of philosophy all went onto my pile of rejects. I'd even looked for hidden compartments in books like I was in some cheesy mystery novel. By the end, I'd begun fanning the pages in every book I handled in case something fell out.

Nothing. The room was entirely devoid of any clues. Part of me wanted to look through them again to be absolutely certain, but I knew that I couldn't do it. I'd only done the book room the day before because that was all I could do.

Searching through her things was like gouging open old wounds; bringing up old grief at my mother's death and mixing it with new pain at her deception, at what she'd done to me. And her books were the worst. I loved reading and loved books, but Mom was her books. Had been her books. I couldn't have been any more raw if I'd gone to the cemetery and dug up her grave.

I slumped against the desk, sliding down until I sank into the chair. My eyes ached. My knee throbbed, the pain coming through clearly no matter how many painkillers I took. I reached up and rubbed my eyes and-

Flinched, jerking my hand away. I glared at it. I'd used my injured hand without thinking. I could smell the sweat on my palm where the bandages had pressed too thickly. My body decoded the scent with contemptuous ease. Skin. Bone. Blood. Meat. I could taste myself. Something electric leapt behind my navel at the smell, and I couldn't stop myself from shivering at how wrong it all was.

I needed answers. Needed them now, but there was nowhere else to look. No more leads. The basement was a dead end. The small store of Mom's things in the attic was all junk. And so I was back, in a room full of books that I would never read.

My stomach rumbled, and the hot flash of anger I felt at it couldn't drown out the hunger. I glanced over at the clock. It'd been nearly four hours since I started my search, and I'd missed lunch. But how was I supposed to eat when twenty seconds ago my body had decided that I smelled like the next thing on the menu? How, when I had nine fingers, and a tenth made from bandages wrapped around nothing that still worked somehow?

My stomach only twinged again, protesting its emptiness.

I took a deep breath, held it for a ten count, and released it. It took three more reps before I could focus enough to make a plan.

Fine. It was lunchtime. I'd feel better if I ate. It would be reassuring to get through a meal without anything weird happening. More than anything though, I wasn't going to let this situation get the best of me. I wouldn't let whatever Mom had done to me control my life.

Feeling a tiny bit better at that, I pushed away from the desk and crutched over to the door. I paused in the doorway, looking back. There was something I was missing here. It couldn't just be a dead end. Maybe I'd think of it at lunch.

A thought hit me halfway down the hall, and I froze, staring at nothing as I processed it.

No.

It couldn't be that simple. How stupid did I have to be that I was looking for secret compartments in books and I'd missed this? Could it really be that obvious?

I hobbled back into the book room, then over to the wall opposite the door. There were two bookshelves on this wall, both standing nearly to the ceiling, one on either side of the window. Every shelf was triple-stacked with books, every available space crammed full. The only gaps were where I'd taken things out in my search.

Getting into position took a lot of balancing, ending with me leaning mostly against the wall so I could use both hands. I set my fingers into the gap between the left shelf and the wall and pulled.

The shelf didn't move for so long that I thought it had to be nailed in place, when finally, as I strained, my hands crying out, the shelf jerked a quarter-inch forward on the floor. I shifted my hands further in, adjusted my grip and pulled again. The shelf scraped forward a little at a time, moving only when I shoved as hard as I could against it.

By the time it was far enough away for me to examine the wall, I was sweating, and I'd accidentally knocked a complete set of first edition Tolkien off the shelf. A blank stretch of dusty wall faced me, the paint two shades brighter than everything around it.

I repeated the process on the other bookshelf, this time managing to send an unabridged copy of The Story of the Vivian Girls thundering to the floor. The book split apart when it fell, thousands of pages falling across the floor like an avalanche.

And I didn't care.

Because there was writing on the wall.

It was blurry, like I was looking at it without glasses from before my change. It reminded me of a Magic Eye puzzle. I could almost see it- there were bits and pieces on the edges that seemed almost legible.

Slowly, I reached out to it. The air over it was thick around my fingers, thrumming with energy. The tiny hairs on the back of my hand were standing up and my skin was tingling.

What kind of power would do this? Leave something that lasted for years, unseen- hidden until I came to find it. What kind of person had Mom been, to keep this kind of secret from us?

I touched the drawing. And-

pulse

Something moved under my skin; a pulse, a second heartbeat, not smooth as bloodflow, but a hundred thousand movements in one. And-

The feeling died away, a static buzz ringing in my ears for just an instant as it went. It echoed faintly, not in me, but across the room, resonating with the drawing.

The writing wavered into focus.

A shape. A design. Curving lines ending with small circles or crosses. Straight lines pointing out from a thin body. The body was narrow, bits spiraling inward, curls and arches suggesting shape rather than showing it.

It was meant to be a bug. An abstract representation of a bug, sketched out in glowing yellow-green lines.

Now that I looked at it, it almost looked like… I looked over my shoulder. The bug was still sitting on the desk, its many jaws twitching as it waited. Was this where it had come from?

I pressed my hand fully against the wall. The pulse ignited underneath my skin for half a breath, and then it was gone again.

-doors were opening-

A section of the wall opened up, swinging outward like it was on hinges. I stumbled backward, catching myself against the bookshelf to keep from falling, staring at the wall in disbelief. That was an exterior wall. There was no space for anything on it. And yet there was a space there. A little two-by-two compartment in the wall like a hidden safe.

I reached in, dragging my fingers along the walls of the compartment. The surface was continuous; the painted drywall went smoothly into the compartment and out without break or gap. It felt like the wall had just been indented, like it had just accommodated this new space without complaint. There weren't any hinges either. The wall had bent, but it was looked more like folded clay rather than rigid drywall. I spent a few minutes shifting around, looking at it from different angles, even leaning out the window to examine the brickwork outside.

Finally, I sighed and gave up. There weren't any immediate answers here. It was just another question on a very long list.

My attention turned to the contents. A single lonely envelope sat in the bottom of the space.

A shiver went down my spine as I read the front.

"To Taylor"

But it wasn't in Mom's handwriting.

I opened it slowly and pulled out the paper folded within. The paper crinkled as I unfolded it. The letterhead read "From the Desk of Annette," and a quick glance at Mom's desk confirmed that this was from the same notepad that Dad had gotten her as a stocking stuffer one Christmas. But where the stack of blank pages was dusty and sun faded, this letter looked brand new, the paper white and the creases crisp. The writing inside was untidy, the lines and letters uneven, written hurriedly.

Taylor,

Do you remember?

Gone into hiding.

My hunger is too much now. Not safe.

Took your mother's things for safekeeping.

Don't tell Danny. Took his memory also.

5553674155

-Aunt Judi

I stood there for a moment, uncomprehending. I read the letter two more times. Words leapt out at me. Do you remember? Took his memory also. By the time I was finished, my hands were shaking, the paper crumpling where I was holding it.

Mom had played with my mind. This woman- this Aunt Judi, had tampered with my memories too. How many times had this happened? Judging from what the letter said, I'd forgotten an entire family member, lost entire years of my life. How was I supposed to trust any of this? Were there other family members out there that I'd been forced to forget? Had Mom even died? Was Dad my Dad? Was-

"Dammit!"

I slammed my fist into the wall. The drywall shattered around it, white dust sifting to the floor, and I hit it again. It only made me angrier; I could feel the hits vibrating up my arm, through my missing finger, reminding me of its absence, of its impossibility.

"Dammit! Son of a bitch!"

I balled up the letter and hurled it at the bug. It knocked the insect a few inches across the desk, and the bug buzzed angrily at me.

"Where the fuck did you even come from?!" I shouted at it.

It didn't answer.

"Get out!"

I didn't just scream at it this time, I reached out and took control of it, hating its alien presence in my mind, hating it for being there, hating it for being.

The bug shot into the air and out the doorway. I felt it spiral down the hall and up the stairs before I broke the connection. The awareness of it remained – wouldn't go away - but I didn't have to look at the stupid thing anymore.

I stomped across the drifts of fallen pages from The Vivian Girls and picked up the letter.

There was a phone number. Aunt Judi had courteously included her phone number.

Our landline sat on a little table to the side of the front hall. I bypassed it and went to the cordless in the kitchen. It took me three tries to dial the numbers; my hands were shaking so badly.

The phone didn't ring. It gave a sharp, electronic chime, and a recorded voice came through from the other end.

"We're sorry, but the number you are calling is out of service or has been disconnected. Please hang up and-"

I ended the call, and then dialed again.

"We're sorry, but-"

I slammed the phone into its cradle. Glared at it, huffing angrily, my jaw tight.

I lifted it and dialed again, a different number.

Dad picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Dad. Do I have an Aunt Judi?"

"Who? What? Is everything okay, Taylor?" Dad sounded confused, his voice rising a little as he talked.

"Yes! I-" I stopped myself. Took a deep breath. Started again. "Yeah. Everything's fine. I- uh… I was just going through Mom's stuff and found a letter from an Aunt Judi. I thought maybe…"

"Oh." Dad was silent. "No. I was an only child, and your mother was as well, you don't have an aunt. What were these letters you found?"

"Just weird, old stuff from years ago. I wanted to get in touch with her about some things." I paused for a second, thinking. "Were any of Mom's friends named Judi?"

"Not that I know of," Dad said, still sounding confused at the whole conversation. "You've met most of her friends over the years. She had a couple of college friends she stayed in touch with that I don't think you knew, but most of them have moved away by now and I don't know their contact information. Is everything okay, Taylor? You sound upset. Is your knee bothering you?"

"It's fine, Dad. I- I gotta go. I don't want to take up all your time."

I could hear him exhale raggedly into the phone. "Taylor, you need to tell me when- you can tell me when things aren't okay. I mean it."

"I know. Everything really is okay here. I'm going to just hang out after this, I'm a little tired."

He sighed again. "Don't push yourself."

"Bye, Dad."

I hung up, dropped the phone back into the cradle, and sighed again. What had I expected? The letter said they'd gotten to him too. I just… I wasn't going to take anything this sketchy at face value.

My anger was slowly bleeding away, replaced with a hollow sort of resignation. Lying to Dad left a sour taste in my mouth. He really was trying now. It wasn't like before when he'd… he'd been mourning. It wasn't his fault he didn't know. He was as much a victim here as me. But I was still keeping him out. And until I had an actual answer to give him, it was better to leave him out of it.

"Crap," I whispered, pressing my forehead against the wall.

It was just like school all over again. And he'd exploded when he found out about that. He'd exploded and still hadn't been able to do anything. Emma and everyone else had gotten off scot-free. They'd piled everything onto Sophia. She'd be in trouble if she ever came back to school – and I didn't think she would. Breaking my knee seemed like her idea of a going away gift.

Dad couldn't know.

It wasn't a happy resolution or even a good one, but it was enough.

YEARNYEARNYEARNYEARNYEARN

As it turned out, lunchtime was going to be more difficult than I expected.

When my anger had finally abated enough for me to think, I'd gone away from the phone and started tugging open cupboards. I was hungry, there were no more leads, and I was too tired to be angry right now. All my rage at what they'd done to me had nowhere to go. I felt burnt out, worn thin.

What food we had was… not good. Unless I wanted a flour and ketchup sandwich on moldy rye, I was out of luck. My injury had been enough of a distraction that we hadn't gone grocery shopping this week. Dad had made the last of the edible food at breakfast, and I'd finished it off after he left.

I was going to have to go to the store.

Walking was out of the question. Half the houses in the neighborhood hadn't cleared their sidewalks or even put down salt, and the closest store was a gas station nearly ten blocks away. The cemetery was still too fresh in my mind to risk that trek.

I bundled up, gathered my crutches under me, and started off to the bus stop at the end of the block. I made it halfway there before I realized that I had no way of actually carrying the food that I bought. And I'd forgotten my money.

By the time I made it back with an empty backpack and cash raided from our grocery fund, I'd missed the bus and had to wait for the next one in twenty minutes.

I passed the time staring at the surroundings. The bus stop was just across from a wooded area, and all the trees were black, skeletal shapes against the snow. Their branches were all dusted with white, the contrast sharp and crisp against the gray winter sky. Looking into the mosaic of limbs they made was a good distraction for a little while. I made a game of it, tracing line to line to line, or trying to make a picture out of the shapes like I was cloud-watching.

There was only so long I could stare at nature though, and the point where I started noticing how cold it was was about the same point I became very aware of the bug's presence.

I could still feel it, even though I was a good five-hundred meters from my house. It was still there, and I was aware of it enough that I could point to it if I wanted to.

Questions raced through my mind, and I leaned forward on the bus stop bench to look back at my house. Was this permanent? Were we joined together forever? What if it died? Where had it even come from in the first place? Could I-

I nudged it with my mind. The bug twitched, and I could feel it resettle itself wherever it was perched.

A man coming to sit down at the bus stop gave me a long look as I groaned and put my head in my hands.

The search through Mom's things had distracted me for a while, but the reality of it was finally setting in.

I had powers.

I had had powers, even as a kid.

Mom had had powers.

I'd fantasized about getting superpowers – everyone did. But I didn't think it worked that way. Powers didn't just… go away and come back years later, did they? And for all the thoughts of what I'd do with superpowers, now that I had them…

Now what?

I didn't have an answer when the bus came a few moments later. When I boarded, I took a window seat at the back. Even when the bus pulled away, I felt the link to the bug stretch and stretch and stretch. In spite of my revulsion toward the bug, I couldn't stop myself playing with our connection as the bus cruised down snowy streets. It… it helped, a little. Some progress in a day that had been nothing but dead ends so far.

As we crossed the Lincoln Street overpass, nearly a mile away now, I made the bug do a loop in the air as easily as I might draw a circle with one of my hands.

It chirped happily and- happily?

I'd been getting feelings from it all day, but I was finally paying attention. What it felt wasn't 'happy' as I understood it. The bug's feelings were primitive, barely more than bursts of imagery and desire.

A hundred million other bugs, buzzing and crawling over a landscape of rotting flesh. Hive. A sense of unity. It liked being connected with me.

I went deeper. Maybe there was a clue here. Something the bug had seen. Maybe even a way to close the connection and be alone in my head again.

The next flash was more abstract, the emotions and feelings too insectile, too strange to translate to well into human terms. Any words I could put to it were rough, only barely comparable.

q̢̦̗͇u҉̤̱e̬̰e̥̣͎̘̼ń͙̩̘͔͈͓ò̺͓͓̺̦f̨w̸̭į͍n͉̭̺̜d͎͇s̶k̹̹y̧̫̬s̩͍̗͙̹̤͇i͓͚̭̞͉͙͘l̺̙͟ͅk͡s̗̝͕̭̝̲͠k͈̰̫͉̮͉͎i̝̠͍͉͖̞͔n͕̭̣͇ͅh͓̱̥̹͉́i̟͖v͏̙e͔̪̦͎ḿ̙͇͎͉̰o̞͔̬̠̲̹͠ţ̠̻͇h̖͉̘̳̬̘͞e͞r͈͓͞b͏̭̭̥͍̝r̨̫̱̣͕̞͚͉o͇o̞̝d̦͎̺̩͉̫

But I understood that the bug meant me.

It liked me.

I shivered. The bug's mind was still there even when I had total control over its body. It was aware of what I was doing with it, and… it was content with that, happy to be a passenger in its own body. I shivered again, suddenly feeling crowded, claustrophobic in my own skin. The desperate need to be alone struck home stronger than ever.

I reached out, groping along our connection, trying to communicate what I wanted.

Get out.

I pushed deeper and deeper, my mind overtaking the bug's. The little sphere of its consciousness was shoved away, tiny compared to my mind. Our connection was blurring, the balance shifting, my mind pouring into spaces that had previously been only the bug's.

A flash-

w̧̺į̫̠͕̭̖͍ͅng̪̯͈̟̯̫̫̀s͚͚͉͙s̰p̪r̜͙͚e͈̰͕͕̺̜̗a̼̝̝d̨̖w̧̺i̩̙ḑ̮̣̯e̲̮̼͇̣̖͎a̡̗͔͈͇̣͎̠n̹̦͝d̲̟̟͚͠w͏͈̙͙̱̞a̫i̶͍͇͖̱̺̣ͅt̝͎̣͇̪͕̻̀i͇͚̱͈̘͠ǹ̠̥g̮̘a̸̫̣̹l̮̖͇̣͟o̯̮͙̗͉̘n̦̼̩̤e̪͍͞n͚o̜̯h̟͇̺̦͕̭̪̕i̜͈̳͔͈̳̕v̪̺͘e̶̜̘̭̰͚͎n̦̹o̴q̰̮͓͙͕̹̗u͎e̥͙̯ͅe̮͜nno̪̹̠͡e̠͉̫̘y͔̩̣es͎͙̗̹̬w͏̻̯͉̻͖o̷͓̱̙̟̦̩̤r̤͠l̲͔̠̟͎d̘̖͔͈̮̺͖͠o̗͓̙f̸̪w̺̖͝i͖n̗̟̹͓͔ͅd͘w̺̯̹͎o̵r͈̲̯̞̭͕l̯͓̭̫͍͜ͅd̸̤̜̩͓͇͙͇w͙̭̲͉̜̪͇i̗̮͘t̪̗̠̰͙h̨̯͕̮̮͎̥̞o̫̝̯̰u̮̰̟̝̼̤͉t̘e̛͓͕̫̜̙̹͙ṉ̭͖̼̯d̨͙̤̜w̢̱͉̦̳̗̥o͉̺̬̣̩͎ͅr̢͉̻̞̠̰ͅl̥͘d͝w̙̻̣̬̫̭͢i̠̰̭͙̤̜t̪̪̦̰̣̬͟h̷͖̞̤͙̰o̴̗̬̝̮u̖̠̬t̩̩͈̀

Terrible, crushing fear. It didn't want to be alone. The bug fell over on one side, its legs twitching, its teeth gnashing with a sound like glass shards grinding together. I pushed again, uncaring, and-

Something else came back over the connection.

s̹̟͖̕c͔̤̱̣e͚͈͜ń̹̥̜̻͓̭͓ṱ͚̣̦t̫̳͍̻͚̀a̵̼̮ͅṣ̰̘͎̻̲ͅt̩͉͍͉̠͓̻í̳̥n̤g͖̤͉͎̣̥͖i̲̹̰̬͎̞̕ͅt͈̗̺͓̞̘͈o̫͔͎n҉̖̰͍͖̘̬th̢͕̫̥̤̥̰e̺̪͎̝a̤͉͇i̶̭̭͇̣̘ͅr̯a̸̪̖ņ̳͕̯d̤̻̰̗̺͚̤͞s̮ͅk͇̯͖̱̮͢ͅy͔͍̹̺̝̳a͘n̶͙d̛̝̹͚̞̭̗̲s͚͇k̦̫͈͍̭̜i̘̺ṉi͇̦̜͘t̯̙

Not memory or feeling, but the bug's senses.

I jerked back in my seat, the bus suddenly blurring into streaks of color around me. The connection snapped back, my mind rebounding away from the bug's.

"Ah!" I slapped my hands against my eyes, trying to massage away the pain. There was an awful taste in my mouth, and I had no water and no place to spit. It was like the bug could taste everything, and I couldn't make it stop now that I was back in my own head. I could taste everything.

The bus was like a sauna, the smells suddenly so thick that I couldn't believe they weren't palpable. The people on the bus were foul. Not just reeking of sweat and body odor, but of stale clothes and rock salt and hair spray and blood and jeans dried stiff with piss and worn anyway and and and-

And-

I shot up, my crutches clanging against the seat in front of me.

"Stop! Stop the bus!" I shouted hoarsely, hobbling up the aisle to the driver.

The man turned to me. "I can't just stop-" And then he saw my face. "Off! Now!"

The bus rolled to a stop just in time for me to dry-heave into a snowdrift. No vomit came, but I kept retching uncontrollably. My head was throbbing, my throat raw, and I couldn't stop.

Diesel exhaust, winter air, road salt, snow, melting snow, running water, sewer water, sewer runoff, dead leaves, rotting leaves, dead raccoon rotting in the leaves, human scent, dog scent, dog piss, sea salt-

I heaved again and again, but there was no relief. I coughed up nothing but bile, spitting it onto the side of the road and trying to clear the taste from my mouth. I stayed there, bent over with only the crutches keeping me up, until slowly, my senses bled back to normal, the world fading to something I could handle.

I straightened up, wiping my mouth, grateful for the small mercy that I'd put my hair up today. Back at the house, the bug righted itself, its whole body quivering. We were still connected as strongly as ever, and I hadn't learned anything useful from pushing the issue. I was pretty sure the bug was in fact, blind, and made up for it with its sense of smell and-

My memories twitched, a scene floating to the top. A bug seen through my eyes, held in my chubby little girl hands. I'll see for you, I promise! And the bug responded with a happy trill.

Wonderful. Why couldn't I remember anything useful?

I sighed and turned back to the road.

The bus had driven off. I caught a faint glimpse of it way off in the distance, just before it turned a corner and went out of sight. Bastard.

The street I was on I didn't recognize, but I had an idea of where I was. There was a corner store close by that I could stop at. It was a little too close to a rough section of the Docks for me to shop there often, but I had before, and I remembered them having a great little deli counter. The proximity to ABB territory also meant that we were close to the areas of Brockton that held most of the Asian immigrant community. Shopping there before had netted me some fantastic Korean barbecue and a recipe for a spicy noodle dish from a woman manning the counter.

Thoughts of what was waiting for me kept me warm as I crutched toward the store, and thinking of the meat helped me ignore the lingering traces of bus in my mouth.

I crested a rise in the street and the store came into sight, only a handful of blocks away now. I started down the slope, sliding a little in the slush, but using my crutches for support. It was actually easier to lean back on them and let the layer of ice under the snow carry me downward. I'd never been skiing, and this was barely more than a slow drift, but I couldn't hide my small smile by the time I reached the road at the bottom. For once, I was grateful for the crosswalk, and didn't have any trouble with the drivers. I stepped onto the sidewalk and paused, leaning on my crutches to catch my breath.

I had to be miles away from home now, but the connection was still there, the bug still close enough that I felt like I could reach out and touch it.

I huffed out a cloud of white smoke and started walking again.

A small park was all that stood between me and the store now. It was only a few hundred feet wide, and opened onto a street lined with small stores. The corner mart was just down the block on the opposite side of the road. I took my time getting there. The crutches were digging into my armpits by now, and the harder I pushed, the more they ached.

A towering cathedral butted up against the line of storefronts, and I had to make my way around the small groups of homeless hanging out around the church steps. They were all bundled up against the cold, holding trashbags full of their possessions between their knees as they sat. A few held out their hands or gestured plaintively at signs written on cardboard, and one of them cried "Spare something, darling?"

I kept going. It couldn't be easy, being homeless in the winter, and Brockton's shelters were probably terrible, but I didn't have any money to give away.

It was a relief to finally step through the doors into the corner mart. The air inside was warm, scented with the smell of fresh meat and spices.

I grabbed a hand basket and made my way over to the deli counter. It was manned by a girl closer to my age than the older woman I remembered, and we actually had a nice, if brief conversation about what I planned to cook. It ended when she asked about how my husband liked my cooking. I stared at her awkwardly for a long moment; she blushed, saying it was a joke, and we both sort of drifted away, not looking at each other.

I kicked myself for it all the way through the store. It had been a while since I had a friendly conversation with someone, but that didn't mean I had to turn into a slack-jawed idiot when someone talked to me. It was like buying into all the bad things Emma said about me.

Shopping for the rest of my ingredients only made me feel more and more awkward; I had to hold my basket with one hand while sort of hooking the crutch on that side to my body with my elbow, and walking turned into more of a controlled stumble as I tried to manage the errant crutch. Finally, I just gave up and set it against a shelf. I had to rush through each aisle, hoping no one would steal it, come back and crutch to the next aisle, and repeat.

The young man behind the front counter didn't look at me when I approached. There was a little tv sitting at the end of the counter that seemed to demand all his attention. A news channel was barely visible through a haze of static, and the anchor's voice was a tinny wail jumping in and out.

"-llisburg burns as Crawler continues his push- -rantined territory. The Triumvirate was on- -with many other volunteer- -and villains, but they have- -little success in quelling the-"

The sound dropped out entirely after that, and the clerk started smacking the top of the tv with a practiced hand. I started stacking my items on the counter. I was halfway through my basket before the clerk turned away from the tv and starting ringing me up.

"Cheap Canadian crap," he muttered, jerking his chin at the tv. The tv took that cue to fuzz back in, the picture mockingly clear now.

"Armsmaster joined the frontline late last week, and wasn't available for comment. Now, Jerry," the anchor said, "Do we think that Armsmaster's absence contributed in any way to Vista's-? She- -funeral on Tuesday- -had to be-" The picture stayed clear, but the sound died off in a static hiss.

The clerk cursed under this breath at it, but started taking the cans I pulled out of the basket. He scanned each item quickly, prices tallying up on the register. I winced as I saw them. The final cost came to just barely outside what I had scrounged out of our grocery fund at home. Slowly, my face burning, not looking at the clerk, I nudged aside two bags of frozen vegetables.

"Put those back, please."

Everything remaining got paid for and went into my backpack. By the time I limped out the door again, I was exhausted physically and emotionally. It was time to go home and not do anything else for the rest of the day. No bugs. No drama. No nothing.

There was a bus stop just down the block. I turned to go and-

Someone put a hand out in front of me.

I looked up.

A man was standing just outside the exit, close enough that he'd been hidden behind the door when I came out. Even at a glance, I could tell he was homeless. One of the homeless I'd glimpsed on the church stairs. Rail-thin, the six layers of clothing he wore made him look lumpy and ungainly. A pale, scabbed face poked out from under the hood of a mud-splattered marshmallow coat.

I could smell him. Not just stale body odor and old alcohol, but something fainter, something burnt. Like he'd come out of a fire long ago and still carried the smell of char with him.

The man dropped his hand with a jerky, uneven motion, like his arm didn't want to cooperate.

"You," he croaked. "It's… you."

The words took a second to sink in, the whole situation moving with a dreamlike slowness as I tried to work past my surprise. I was about to get mugged.

"You, you, you." The man took a step forward. "Will you… touch me?"

I took a step back, and the world seemed to snap into focus, my heart suddenly pounding into action. Run. Turn and run back into the store.

But the man took a step forward, looming over me. Mad, hollowed junkie's eyes stared down from under the shadow of his hood, his lips working into a vacant grin. A fly landed on his cheek. I lashed out without thinking, without knowing I could - catching the fly with my power. And-

It was like the Magic Eye on the book room wall. Something shifted, with the fly as the focal point. The pulse rose under my skin, my whole body buzzing, and I saw him, saw through him, tasted him. Flavors and scents I couldn't name blurred through me, and only what had happened with the bug earlier let me ignore them. There was a symbol inside him, burned inside his chest like a brand. It didn't form any shapes or designs, only a nest of tangled, gently curving lines like bent wire.

My back hit the door, but I was still looking at him, staring at that symbol. It didn't look like the drawing on the wall, but I knew they were the same somehow.

"Will you touch me?" he whispered again. "Will you bless me with your touch?"

I jerked my eyes away from the sign. Panic reasserted itself.

"Get away!" I shouted.

The man froze. He stared at me, his eyes jittering in their sockets. "Will you?" he said slowly.

I jammed one crutch into my armpit and balanced against it. The other I lifted in both hands like a club. It was cheap, flimsy wood, but if this guy tried anything, I was going to swing for the fences.

He looked at me for a long moment, his fingers twitching at his sides. And then he spoke again. "I'm all ate up inside. Nothing left."

The man raised one arm and pulled back his sleeve. The inside of his arm was a ruined, raw mess of scabs. Track marks. Bruised, scarred veins ran out like a roadmap along his skin. And… they ran deep. I saw it in the same way I could the symbol inside him. Those scarred veins ran to his heart, twisting and tangling around the symbol like vines.

"I'm all ate up," he repeated. "I gave it all to them and they put it in me. Put the poison in me. M-marked me."

I swallowed, my mouth dry. "Get away from me." I didn't care about what he was saying. My voice rose to a shout. "Get the fuck away from me!"

The man took a step back. He still had his hand out, reaching for me. "Bless me. You gotta bless me. Take the poison away. Keep me away from them. G-gotta touch me."

Someone pushed open the other store door. The cashier leaned out, his face hard. "The fuck you doing here?" He stepped out, fists raised. "I've warned you, shithead!"

The homeless man took a couple more steps back, his feet at the edge of the sidewalk now. He looked between me and the clerk, a terrible desperation in his face. I still had the crutch in my hand, and I was sure the man was going to run at me even with the clerk here.

"L-look at me," the man whimpered, his face screwing up with anguish. "I'll do it for you. I'll do it for you if you'll bless me. I'll do it all. I'll-"

The clerk started forward. "Had it up to here with you fucking crazies."

The homeless man turned. I saw what happened next in slow motion.

He looked, and I followed his gaze. We both saw the dump truck barreling down the street, its bed full of sand. He looked back at me, the red sign still burning in his chest.

"I do it all for you!" he shrieked.

And then he hurled himself into the road, spreading his arms wide in welcome.

The truck struck him, its horn blaring, but not loud enough to drown out the sharp crack of metal smashing bone. The truck swerved, and I lost sight of the man beneath its wheels. The horn roared out twice more, the truck careening, jerking back and forth on the road. It scraped the sides of a dozen parked cars before veering across the road and jumping the curb into the park. The truck turned sharply, utterly out of control, and keeled, the wheels on one side leaving the ground. The sound when it hit the ground was like thunder.

A wave of sand poured out across the grass, and the truck's horn wailed on and on.

The clerk stood beside me, both of us motionless.

"F-fuck," he whispered.

Slowly, I walked forward to the edge of the road.

The homeless man had left a smear of red forty feet long down the road. He was a rumpled, broken heap against the wheel of one of the cars the truck had hit. I was just close enough to see his leg jerk once, twice, three times, before going still.

Close enough to see the sign inside him fade.

Close enough to see the insect push itself out of his chest and flutter toward me.

It landed on my palm, its iridescent wings shining in the sun.

The truck's horn slowly died out, the sound replaced by sirens rising in the distance.

The new insect's star grew in my mind, and there were others now, more; hundreds blooming by the second.

I stood there on the sidewalk and stared at the dead man, my mind full of stars.

I wasn't hungry anymore.