The girl was beautiful, blonde, more slight than Victoria had been at that age, but with some of the same traits. Poised with back straight, even though her hands were trembling as they rested on top of Amy’s own. In another reality, she could have been Victoria’s sister, more inclined to ballet than any competitive sport. Amy could sense the girl’s toes, the damage her feet had taken, months ago, before the girl’s emergent power had spoiled things. Ballet could be hard on the body. Even months after abandoning the sport, Hunter’s muscle tone was strong, her heartbeat confident. Her proprioception was top notch.

The second child that Carol no doubt would have loved to have, who could have been another natural superheroine in the right circumstance.

Mentally? Internally? An entirely different person. If Amy had to guess, there might have been a common ancestor seven generations back. But that was a reach.

Everything sorted, set in its place. The corona was buried, disconnected by small stages, buried more. Made small. Amy was put in mind of welders working in deep pressure environments. The right conditions could produce a vacuum that would suck a man through a baseball-sized hole.

There was no danger to Amy herself, probably, but it was delicate work in a hostile environment, and her work could easily be undone by the wrong conditions.

“Could you make me a boyfriend?” Dot asked.

“Shh, hush,” Marquis said. His voice was soothing in a way that seemed to affect Hunter.

“Actually, father, would you keep talking to her?” Amy asked.

“To?” Marquis asked.

“Hunter. Same tone.”

“As you wish. Dot will be quiet, and we will figure out something fun to do this afternoon to thank her for being quiet, yes? Mouth closed. Nod.”

Amy glanced up. Both Dot and Hunter nodded.

“And Hunter, my dear, is maintaining excellent sitting posture. Did they beat you with a cane to train your posture?”

“No,” Hunter said, smiling, her eyes still closed.

Amy felt the corona shift. Portions of the brain that had been tranquil now flared to life.

“You’ll lose your vision or hearing for one second,” Amy said. “Don’t panic, it will come back.”

“Understood,” Hunter reported. Her hands wanted to shake more, Amy was aware, but were too flat against Amy’s own. There was more flaring, more flickering. The house of cards threatened to topple.

Amy deafened Hunter.

“No talk of violence, please.”

“Understood,” Marquis said.

“Your voice reminds her of a grandfather. Talk of old things or tell stories. Nice stories.”

“I will. Happy to help,” Marquis said.

Off at the other end of the room, Mark sat with a phone resting on his knee, looking tense. He had asked yesterday if she would heal his lingering mental issues. Dysthymia and lingering effects of a concussion he’d had as a teen.