Ignited by Lily Cahill

people to his cause. Butch had gone to jail, but the only charge the police had been able to stick him with was being a public nuisance. The last Henry had heard, those who had fought with Butch were trying to make amends. There were a lot of factors to consider. Still, it was difficult for Henry to grasp the mood of the town. These were people they’d always known, so where had all this suspicion come from?
    “It seems to me that if everyone keeps acting like these powers make them freaks, the only thing we can trust is that they’ll grow to hate or fear us.” Henry shook his head. “This isn’t good, Bill. This isn’t the way to go about it.”
    Bill frowned thoughtfully. His skin was tinged pink from the alcohol, and it clashed horribly with his red hair.
    “You talk a lot of sense, Henry,” Bill said, nodding. “But I still want to go to a meeting, get a feel for what they’re about. I don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”
    It was about the best Henry could hope for. He shrugged. “Fair enough. Just keep an open mind, okay?”
    “Will do. Say, did I tell you I got Kenny a puppy?”
    “Oh yeah? What kind?”
    “Sweet little terrier mix. Right now she’s so tiny she fits in the palm of my hand.”
    Henry laughed. The conversation drifted into more normal territory, but Henry struggled to say engaged. His mind was churning. Something was happening.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER FIVE
    Henry
     
    A few days later, Henry stood outside his mother’s old Victorian home and sighed.
    He was early. He always made it a point to be early when it was time for family dinner. That was what his grandfather always referred to it as—”family dinner.” For Henry, it was more like an exercise in biting his tongue. Every week, he dressed up in his best suit, flattened his hair until it was passably neat, and then trekked up to Highledge, where he would have dinner with his mother and grandfather, dodging barbs from the first and encouraging smiles from the second.
    He didn’t know why he kept up with the charade. Long ago, he’d had the realization that his mother was never going to forgive him for everything that had happened. It wasn’t okay, it wasn’t what he wanted, but sometimes, that was the way life worked. There was no point in complaining about it. That wouldn’t change anything.
    Henry had made peace with everything. Or, he would have if his grandfather weren’t so insistent that Henry and his mother would make up, one day.
    All Dr. Pinkerton wanted in the world was for his daughter and her son, his grandson, to be the family he had always dreamed of. Considering all he had done for Henry—the man had practically raised him, had paid for medical school—Henry felt like he owed his grandfather enough to try . And he did try. He was punctual, polite, and well-groomed. He never snapped at his mother, even as she ignored him or stared blankly at him over the top of her wine glass.
    She blamed him, and he couldn’t forgive her for it. The car accident had not been his fault—not really—though his impending birth was the cause. How do you assign blame on a mother in labor and a nervous father driving too fast? But that didn’t mean his mother, who had lived through it--who had lost her husband and gained a son in the same night--was able to see the situation clearly.
    His grandfather wouldn’t even try to understand.
    So here it was: another Tuesday, dressed in his best like it was church. He’d put water on his hair to try to tame it down into a neat part, and he’d even made sure to shine his shoes. The Highledge Victorians surrounded him on all sides, beautifully painted ladies with neat, manicured lawns. He’d grown up here, in this house, had played on its dusty porch, run in and out of the heavy wooden door that was now closed to him.
    For all the time and memories, however, it had never felt like home. Maybe the concept of “home” required more love than his mother had been able to