The number of idiots participating in Sunday night bar fights: six.
The number of panic attacks I’ve had in the last two hours: three.
The number of times I’ve thought about Allison Harper: more than I can count.
The number of times my mind manipulation had failed me before: zero.
I’d been sitting on the Harper’s rooftop above Allison’s bedroom for nearly 20 minutes, trying to figure out what exactly I was going to do about this. Surely, it had to have been a fluke. Maybe it was because of the bullet? The monazite must’ve still been in my blood, but no, it couldn’t have been. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have healed, or at least not as quickly. My head was spinning, I’d been able to manipulate people’s minds since I was just 12 years old. It had never not worked before. Well, except for on
