I’m hopeful that the link forged in the fire will bring us together. Yeah. Right. She’s subzero, reciting the alphabet in French in her head until I’m ready to throttle her. We sit together at lunch, Conrad, Joanne, and I, but she refuses to acknowledge me. I place food beside her, like some weird offering to a goddess. She accepts it, eats it—tuna fish on wheat bread, a protein bar, and milk. I want to talk to her. Explain what happened at the fire. But she won’t even look at me. We’re sitting there, Conrad and me talking cars, when a vision comes to her. She tries to suppress it, but my hand shoots out and touches her arm. I lock into her mind and live the vision with her. Pink house, purple shutters. The address, 10 Talbott Street, is on the mailbox. The front door opens. A man hurries to his truck. The door remains ajar. A small child walks out, waddles down the drive, waves good-bye as the truck drives away. Behind the child, the front door swings shut. The toddler tries to reach the doorbell.
