“What about ability suppression?” I asked. “My dad is a telekinetic, his ability is based in the brain—what if that’s somehow causing the disease? That’s happened before, right? Someone’s ability interacting with the rest of their biology in a destructive way?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess so…” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I have heard about ability-specific suppressants being developed, but those are pretty controversial. The AM wants Atypicals who are powerful, not ones who can’t use their powers, and most Atypicals don’t like the idea of their abilities being taken away from them. They’re a part of us.”

“But you think the AM is developing it anyway?” I asked.

“I think they would be stupid not to,” he said darkly.

We didn’t have a chance to talk about it more because that was when my parents came in, completely baffled to see a total stranger eating breakfast at their kitchen counter at eight in the morning. But that’s enough for me to go on—if the AM is developing something that could stop a power long enough to reverse or slow the effects of an illness, then I need to convince my dad to go back.

APRIL 13TH, 2017

When I walked into the kitchen, tea was making itself.

For a brief moment, I just sort of thought I’d wandered into a dream for the first time in weeks, despite the fact that I didn’t remember ever falling asleep.

But it was just my dad was using his telekinesis to make breakfast.

“Someone’s feeling good,” I said, going for chipper. My dad turned around and shot me an unconvincing smile.

“Is that someone you?” he asked as a plate of muffins floated toward me.

“Did you go to the bakery today?” I asked, grabbing a muffin off the plate and watching it float back to place itself on the table in front of where my dad was sitting.

“Yep,” he said.

It was really odd—the whole kitchen was bustling around him, buzzing with activity, like it was a normal morning from a year ago, but my dad seemed sullen. I sat down across from him, putting down my uneaten muffin.

“Dad, are you okay?” I asked.

“Have you been dreamdiving, Rose?” he asked bluntly. I blinked, trying to read in his face why he was asking, what I could have possibly done to make him want to ask.

The truth is, I hadn’t. I told him as much. That I hadn’t dived since Sam’s house (though I didn’t tell him the details of that particular evening), that I felt trapped in my own head.

“I miss it,” I admitted.

“Why do you like it so much, Rose?” he asked, so soft and genuinely curious and fully focused on me and I wanted to cry.