The refugees were easier to walk among, even though they were arguably the group I identified with the least. Maybe the Victoria who had been part of Patrol block would feel more at home among them, but… that had been a long time ago. But I got out of their way, they got out of mine. The urge to fly and expedite the trip was a dull itch, without being a physical pain or outright strain on my patience.

I wanted so badly to experiment, to test my power, to make sure that the control I’d managed to forge wouldn’t slip away from me due to hours of neglect. I wanted to do more small exercises like the clothes hanger and sweater. To figure out where I needed to be or the mental state I needed to avoid those impulsive, uncontrolled movements.

But I couldn’t.

So I bit my tongue, and held onto the positives. That Crystal had the chance to hug her mom, or someone close enough to her mom to count. To talk to her, to ask questions.

Section 22. I found row 10. Close.

22-10… one row over, good. Then column…

22-9-15…

22-9-18… I carried on down the corridor. Turned a right at 19.

22-9-19-5…

The intersection was more like an apartment building, rooms marked with their individual number code, with doors facing out. A ramp led up to the second ‘story’ of dormitory rooms. The lights in the hallway had been dimmed, and a few screens along the way urged me to be quiet. Members of the latest patrol were sleeping.

I found the room, and knocked softly.

No answer.

I knocked again, a little firmer.

I let myself in at the lack of a response. My eyes adjusted to the gloom, and the first thing I recognized was a poster of Gallant on the wall, which was hilarious. The second thing—

Sudden movement in my peripheral vision, a yelp—

And I had to restrain myself from yelping too, before I turned and fled the room.

Okay!

Wow.

“Fuck,” I heard Vista. “Shit. I’ll be right out!”

Her dormitory neighbor banged on the wall at the noise.

I opened my mouth to reply, and words failed me. I just stayed where I was, back to the wall, door to my left, reflecting on life, the passage of time, and exercising what were now years of experience in not letting thoughts or mental images settle in my mind’s eye. I’d relax, surrender the scene to the natural flow of thoughts, and refuse to allow the image to be committed to memory.

What felt like an interminably long, silent period of time passed.

I heard laughter.

“Don’t laugh!” Vista snarled.

The laughter got louder. Tristan emerged from the room.

My eyebrows went up.

“Apparently my brother doesn’t want to do the walk of shame, so he’s given me my turn.”