Crying always left my head feeling like a drummer had taken up residence inside my skull. I pushed off the covers and swung my feet off the bed.

Soft light from the bedside lamp cut away at the darkness. I found my way to the bathroom and washed away what remained of my tear-fest. Then I pulled off my hoodie and tossed it back into the bedroom. I refused to look in the mirror after that. With my current drama-induced freak-out, I would probably throw myself on the floor after one glimpse of my scars.

Unable to fall back to sleep, I sat down at the desk and booted up the computer. Hope sparked alive when I checked my email. There were old messages from Adam, proving that he had known me once upon a time, and the one Dad had forwarded to me before the accident, but nothing new.

I don’t even know what I was thinking.

Out of boredom and a sort of desperate need to think about anything else, I Googled: “Gifted.” Results were so not what I was looking for. Then I searched “special powers.” Wikipedia brought the giggles, but since I didn’t think I was dealing with the X-Men, I hit the backspace button.

Finally, I came across a website dedicated to real accounts of superpowers. Taking a deep breath, I clicked on the link and started reading. Things like clairvoyance, precognition, the ability to look into the past, rapid learning, super-speed, telekinesis, telepathy, pyrokinetics, memory removal, dream manipulation, and on and on. There was nothing on bringing back the dead or a “toxic touch” syndrome. All these years I’d never really considered the idea of Olivia having “superpowers,” but there was no doubt she was gifted, and so were the other people in the house.

Me? I was cursed.

Yawning, I scanned the rest of the page. Curiosity got the best of me and I typed in “The Facility.” After several pages of nonsense, I gave up. I don’t know why I’d thought some crazy research-slash-kid-stealing institute would have a website.

Weary, I turned the computer off and picked up my sketchpad. Several attempts at drawing ended in failure. Everything came across wrong, uneven. I ripped the pages off one by one and tossed them to the floor. All the while my brain kept spitting out questions that had no answers. Tossing the pad on the desk, I stood and glanced around the room. The drapes covering the balcony doors stirred as the air kicked on.

The flimsy material billowed out further. I reached out and caught the drapes. Outside, thick clouds rolled through the night sky. Only a fine sliver of moonlight hit the balcony, casting shadows of the nearby trees. But something looked strange about the shadows near the balcony door. Frowning, I leaned closer and peered through the glass.

One of the shadows appeared way too thick, too solid—and way too tall.

My fingers slid away from the curtain. Then the shadow moved.