“I’d love to,” I said. “Really, I enjoy the heck out of that stuff, and I’d love to try teaching it.”

“Awesome,” she said. She nodded, all energy and hasty nods as she was ready to jump straight to the next thing. She had her phone out, setting it on the table next to her, and she gave it a spin, so it twirled in a circle for a moment. “I want to help them.”

“Me too. I want to help a lot of people.”

The phone stopped. Kenzie angled her head, staring at the screen.

“Something up?” I asked. How awkward would it be to come all the way here, only for us to get pulled away for cape duties or to help one of the others? Kenzie’s family seemed strict, and they might look poorly on a change in plans.

Still staring down at the screen, she said, “Upstairs, I said something about memories and mementos. This…”

She gave a box beside her a pat. It was as tall as she was, but narrow. A pillar, more than anything.

“Is my diary.”

“Your diary?”

She looked away from the phone, giving me another hurried nod, her eyes wide. “Basically.”

“That’s bigger than your time camera.”

“It’s kind of like the projector box, but it’s more purposeful,” she said. She pulled a shoebox from the shelf and put it on the table. The thing was half-filled with what looked like the kind of memory stick that was plugged into a computer to give it more random access memory. She fished around and pulled one out.

“See? I take this, and stick it in, make sure it’s on, and…”

The box lit up. Images filled the room.

The group therapy meeting. Rain’s hair was a bit shorter than it had been when I’d met him.

My gaze lingered on Jessica, who stood at the edge of the scene. I felt a pang, seeing her face.

“Each card has notches, see?” she asked. She held up a card, showing me where there were dabs of paint at regular intervals. Pink, purple, pink, red, black, pink. Baby blue, yellow, red, yellow, blank, baby blue, yellow, red, purple. “Each is a scene.”

She cycled through the group therapy session. Much of the focus seemed to be on Kenzie and Sveta.

“That’s a lot of diary entries,” I observed. A shoebox half filled with cards, each card only a little longer and thinner than a lighter.

“Well, I’m cheating, kind of,” she said. “Some of it’s the past, but some is the future. Stuff I dream of or fantasize. It’s nicer to have it visual like this than to just have it be random, thoughts-racing wonderings, you know?”

“Dreams?” I asked.

“Um. So like this one, if I click forward a few times…”