My dad groaned at that, a guttural sound of pain and concern I’d never heard from him before. The furrow in my mom’s brow got deeper and I was about to launch into more words of comfort—the sleep studies that I was thinking about doing, the fact that the doctor at urgent care didn’t seem overly worried, all the reading I had done online—when Aaron spoke up for the first time in a few minutes.

“Oh,” he breathed. “I get what’s going on.”

“What?” I asked.

“You guys think it’s finally happened,” he said, looking at our parents instead of at me, which was incredibly annoying.

“Oh my god, will someone just please tell me why everyone has a look on their face like the dog died.”

“We’ve never had a dog,” my dad said, pointlessly.

“Dad!”

“This sounds like the manifestation of your ability.” My mom sighed, sounding way more exasperated than I would have expected at her claiming that I all of a sudden have SUPERPOWERS.

“Excuse me?” I said once I got my breath back.

“Remember Aaron’s headaches?” my dad asked. “He had them for months before the voices started.”

“Boy, out of the context of this family, that makes me sound real weird,” Aaron quipped.

My spine was tingling and I was getting that dizzy feeling again, like maybe I was going to pass out, except it usually happened faster than this, so maybe I wasn’t about to have a narcoleptic fit, maybe I was just panicking.

Here’s the thing: I don’t panic. I never panic. I didn’t panic when I graduated high school with no plan, I didn’t panic the first time Chef gave me a dressing-down in front of the whole kitchen staff for not cutting on a bias, I didn’t panic when a total stranger in a run-down urgent care told me that I probably have a lifelong disease that’s going to affect my every waking moment. Pun intended.

But I was panicking at the kitchen table. At least, I think that’s what it was. My vision was blurry, my chest was tight, and it felt like there was cotton stuffed in my ears. Like I was underwater. But I was awake and upright, staying conscious against all odds, trying to focus on my mom’s voice as she told me that she had been thinking that the Atypical gene had skipped me, that they’d gotten lucky and wouldn’t have to worry about their only other child having a hard time in life, always struggling with being different. But her words weren’t making sense to me, nothing anyone was saying was making sense because I can’t be Atypical, I’m nineteen, it’s too late, and what would my ability even be? The power to sleep whenever and wherever I want?