Drake squeezed my hand. 'We'll keep our baby safe. I promise.'
"I hope so. It's just hard to believe it when I don't see a way out of this. We don't even exist to the rest of the world. At least I don't. How are we going to protect our daughter if we can't even take care of ourselves?"
'First, you need to fully recover. Then we'll make a plan.'
Brad cleared his throat and ran a tanned hand through his hair. "Hey, guys, it's great that you two lovebirds have the whole telepathic connection going on, but maybe you could talk out loud for those of us who don't have para-powers?"
I smiled. "Sorry. Bad habit."
"I know. I just feel like the third wheel around you guys sometimes." He stood up and paced on the grass in front of us. Both Brad and Drake were tall, but where Drake had bulk and major muscle, Brad was a lanky beanpole topped with unruly brown hair.
He continued. "What do we do now? I still think the best way to stay safe is to get the story out—to let the world know what's going on and get some support and protection on our side. I thought, after working at the paper for a year, they would've at least heard me out. But they said if I want to write fiction I should dump journalism and become a novelist."
I reached out to pat his hand. "Ouch. I'm so sorry, Brad. That sucks."
"Yeah, Bro," Drake said, "I know how important your job is to you."
I squeezed Drake's hand. "I still think we should go to the police. It's not like we live in a third world country. The police are the good guys, right?"
"In theory," said Brad. "But you're talking about paranormal powers and secret organizations. They could just as easily put you in a mental institution."
"But we can prove we have these powers. They don't have to take our word for it. They can test us. Then they'd have to at least listen to our story."
"Then they'd just put you in a lab."
Drake nodded. "I don't disagree with you, Bro, but I think it's worth a shot. I'm not a fan of the system, but maybe we can get some support. If not, we leave. We haven't committed a crime and we're not a danger to our selves or others, so they can't keep us against our will. If all else fails, I get us out and no one remembers we were there."
I shifted under Drake's arm. "You know, Brad, I thought Drake would be the cynical, can't-trust-authority one. Not you."
Brad frowned. "If you guys really want to risk it, I have a contact in the department from my Crime Watch days. We can talk to him tomorrow."
A huge weight lifted off my shoulders. If we could get support from the authorities, we had a chance at success. "In the meantime, I still think we should get our story out there. And I have an idea. Brad, you could use your blog."
"Sam, my blog gets all of twenty hits a day, if I'm lucky. That's hardly enough to gain us huge support."
"But anything can go viral at any moment. We just need a little luck and an interesting story."
We stood and walked down the sidewalk littered with displays, homeless people, street performers and shops. I thought about Gar, my Rent-A-Kid bodyguard who had died trying to help me escape. He had a little girl out there, Serena, with powers to heal. His wife was probably in hiding, but if I could find her, maybe she could help us get the story out.
Or maybe not. She wouldn’t want the world knowing about her daughter. The power to heal was special, but dangerous. If Serena used her gifts too often, she would die.
We needed to find our own way of convincing the world to believe us.
Brad fidgeted with his phone as if it held the answer to reaching the masses. "I’ve been working on building my social media following, and this is a compelling story. I guess it can't hurt, and there's nothing else I can think to do at this point."
He searched his phone for something then smiled. "It does have a recorder app. Want to do a quick interview right now?"
"Um, sure, I guess."
He clicked the record button. "What's the first memory you have of your childhood, Sam?"
Drake's body pressed into me—or mine into him, I couldn't tell—as I thought back to my earlier years. "I don't know if this is my first memory or not, but I was young, four or five years old, and my teacher was asking me a question...."
***
"Hello, Sam, what are you drawing?" Mrs. Rosewood asked.
"It's a mommy and a daddy with a little girl."
"Are you the little girl?"
"No. I don't have a mommy and daddy."
"That's because you are a very special little girl, with very special gifts." 'So awful that these kids are taken so young... no family... alone... breaks my heart.'
I touched her hand. "Don't let your heart break, Mrs. Rosewood. I'm okay. I'm not alone. I have you."