Powers by Deborah Lynn Jacobs

Dad asks.
    â€œNot much. What’s new with you?” I reply.
    We grin a bit longer, then Dad says, “Well, if you don’t mind picking up that paint, I’ll give you my debit card.” I should tell him to buy a winter jacket and warm boots. He must be freezing in that leather coat.
    â€œHey, thanks,” I say.
    â€œThanks?” What just happened? What did Helen say? That he was asking her about ESP?
    â€œUh, yeah. For the debit card.” Oh, man, that was lame. Will he buy it?
    â€œOh,” says Dad. Nah. Mind reading’s impossible.
    I suppress my sigh of relief. Don’t blow it.
    â€œBy the way, why don’t you look for a winter jacket and warm boots? You must be freezing in that leather coat of yours.”
    â€œThanks!” I leave before I give myself away.
    Gwen
    We found him in the narrow alley beside the coffee shop. He wore a ratty brown coat and a gray hat, exactly like in my dream. The deep lines in his face were fuzzed with beard stubble. Clutched tightly in his hand was a whiskey bottle, half-concealed by a brown paper bag.
    â€œIs he dead?” Joanne whispered.
    â€œWell, if he is, we aren’t going to disturb him by talking out loud,” I whispered back.
    â€œFunny, ha, ha. Go check.”
    â€œWhy me?”
    â€œIt was your dream.”
    That was hardly logical, but I couldn’t think of a good comeback. I ventured into the alley. Drifting snow partially covered the ground, along with chocolate-bar wrappers, fast-food containers, and broken beer bottles.
    â€œCheck his pulse,” Joanne said.
    I crouched down. Even in the frigid air, I could smell him.
    â€œHey, Joanne,” I called. “Can lice jump?”
    She grimaced and made an impatient “go on” gesture.
    As I reached toward him, he blew out a loud, reverberating fart.
    â€œHe’s alive,” I said, holding my nose. I grabbed my camera.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Joanne asked.
    â€œWell, you see, when I push this button here,” I said, demonstrating, “I get this image of whatever I’m looking at.”
    â€œVery funny. You can’t print a picture of him. How would his family feel?”
    â€œIf they’re that concerned, they ought to take care of him,” I argued. Just the same, I clapped the lens cap back on my camera and put it away. Maybe Joanne was right. I didn’t need to exploit the old guy’s misery.
    I pulled out my phone instead and dialed 411. “Hi, I need the number for the Rocky Water Police, please.”
    The operator gave me the number. “Should I connect you?”
    I hesitated. The future is set in its course. But not today.
    â€œYes, please connect me.”
    Adrian
    I drive through silence. Snow-covered road, empty woods. No voices in my head. This ends when I arrive in town. I walk into Canadian Tire, looking for paint and a snow float. It’s Saturday and it’s a big store and it’s filled with people.
    The mental noise deafens me. I grab a snow float, pick up a gallon of paint, and take it to the counter to get the color mixed in.
    â€œYou want this shook up?” asks the paint guy. He’s about my age, with spiked blue hair and a tongue stud. He puts the paint can into a mixer. Above the racket, I hear his thoughts— hurts to pee. Burns like —
    As if I need this. Then, another voice speaks in my head.
    â€”morning sunrise or peach delight? Morning sunrise … better with the drapes … too pink … but the peach is too peachy … might clash with the rug …
    I look beside me to see a middle-aged woman agonizing over two paint samples. Behind me, a baby, bundled up to its eyeballs in a snowsuit, hat, mittens, and a blanket, sits fussing in his car seat. His mental whining cuts through my head like a table saw.
    I pay for the paint, say to the guy with the blue spikes, “See your doctor.” I turn to the middle-aged woman