The thief fell from the tower’s upper window. She had lost her precarious grip on the pitted brick. She remembered that she should roll herself up into a loose ball to protect her head and neck. But by the time she remembered, she had already struck the first branch of the tree in the orchard below. Then she struck another and another. Scratched and thrashed and bounced about, she finally reached the ground, thankful that the soil was soft. She lay there for far too long a moment. The breath had been knocked out of her. And she feared moving for fear she might discover that she could not.
“What is that? On its head? Is that a hat or…a deformity?”
“It’s too hazy to see when it’s in motion,” I said. “We’ll have to pause.”
“The lights are on. We can see everything. I thought he only comes when it’s dark.”
The visions. I’d had them all my life. They’re tricky to read, like tarot cards. Vague sometimes, like dreams. When I was a kid, I would tell my mom, and she had this way of pretending it was normal while still keeping it secret. By the time I became aware that my ability was unique, I knew how to hide it. I started to teach myself how to control it, and soon enough, how to use it.