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me?”
    “Bullshit.” He pulled me in closer. His fingers tightened almost painfully on my shoulder, and his eyes flashed. “I won’t let you do this.”
    “You won’t let me?” I wrenched myself out of his grip and took a step back. “I’m a grown woman, Shane. Give me my goddamn pills.”
    He let his hands fall by his sides, and he didn’t have to speak his answer. The muscles in his jaw tightened. If I wanted my pills, I was going to have to literally fight him for that bottle.
    “Fine,” I said. “Keep them. I’ll just get more once I get home.” It was a cheap shot and I knew it, but he didn’t react. A wave of concern and annoyance came rising up from him. I didn’t want to feel it.
    I brushed past him and walked out, so angry my vision was swimming. All I could hear was the rush of my own blood in my ears, and I pounded down the hall without knowing where I was headed. Shane started to follow me, then stopped and leaned against the wall outside my room. His thoughts seeped into my head. —should go after her—but she won’t listen right now—Jesus , why do I let myself give a shit—only be harder when she leaves—goddammit— There was a thump as his fist hit the solid wood of the doorframe hard enough to make the light fixture on the ceiling rattle. I kept going, blocking it all out, and before I knew it, I was in Mina’s room.
    It was just as I remembered it—the old antique canopy bed in the corner, a dresser with bits of fabric peeking out of the drawers, her statue of Saint Jude on the mantel surrounded by candle stubs in glass jelly jars. Her fiddle was leaning next to her window, which overlooked the brick-covered interior courtyard.
    I went and sat on her bed, leaning against the big orange pillows and remembering the countless hours I’d spent in this spot.
    By my junior year of high school, the Weatherfields had custody of me. Some asshole judge decided anyone would make a better guardian than a single gay black man raising his dead brother’s kids, so Lionel’s application to adopt me had been denied. Out loud, the judge said the income from the B&B wasn’t stable enough. In his head: —pretty little thing—no telling what’ll happen to her in that family—that nigger looks like a faggot to me— Social services placed me with Bill and Kate Weatherfield soon after, and unfortunately, they agreed with the judge about the Tanners. I made up a whole year’s worth of extracurricular activities to explain why I didn’t come home after school.
    Looking at Mina’s candles, I remembered sitting there with her late one night during a summer thunderstorm, the rain beating at the windows. Me, Mina and Mary Ellen Hebert, another local converter Mina went to high school with. The power had winked out like it often did in bad weather, and we lit the candles to talk by. Mary Ellen had always been great at starting fire with telekinesis, and I’d been trying to learn. We got tipsy on wine stolen from Lionel’s stash and I lit everything but the wick on fire—the box of matches, Mina’s Calculus book, a dried rose from Mina’s sophomore homecoming. It would have been scary if we hadn’t been laughing so hard. We were lucky we didn’t burn the place down.
    “How do you guys do that?” I asked. “Focus it like that?”
    “You’ll get there,” Mina said.
    “It just takes practice.” Mary Ellen lit a candle and snuffed it out, spinning it in midair.
    I’d given up and watched them, wishing I had that much control, wishing my whole life had been different.
    Shane and Mina had been practicing since they were six or seven, and I’d only begun training when I was twelve. While they were shuffling playing cards with their minds, I was struggling to lift a single sheet of paper without tearing it. Power would come rushing out of me at odd moments, and I’d break dishes or knock over chairs. Shane and Mina would laugh, set things right again, tease me. I felt like I was wearing