"I think it's cute when you get jealous, Sam."
"Oh, shut up."
She grinned and jogged easily next to me. Her caramel skin glistened. My own mostly pale skin glistened too. I felt sunburns come and go, come and go, over and over and over again. But yet my skin mostly remained alabaster white. When I finally got out of the sun, any sunburn that lingered would disappear like water evaporating on hot pavement.
"Tell me about your client," said Allison. "The creator."
And so I did. According to the Librarian, there were only so many creators. Most creators didn't know they were creators. More often than not, they tended toward the arts; in particular, writing and filmmaking, although a handful of them had created particularly immersive video games. The particularly immersive part was the key, for the creators among us had a unique gift. A very, very unique gift.
"They create worlds?" asked Allison, grabbing my arm and pulling me to a stop. She had timed it perfectly, for there was a short, wind-blown, stunted tree next to us. We each opened our water bottles, took a swing, and leaned against it.
"It's complicated," I said. "But that's the whole of it."
"You mean real worlds?"
"I mean real worlds. It's complicated," I said again.
"Then uncomplicate it, Sam. Because this is big. And it's kind of freaking me out."
I explained it as best as I could. According to Maximus, there were only a half dozen or so creators in our world at any given time. Almost none of them were aware of their talents, which was not necessarily a bad thing.
"They are accidental creators?"
"In a way, yes. Although their works of art are no accidents."
"Sam, I need to be clear here. Are you telling me that Charlie Reed, the guy we met just the other night, can create... people?"
I took another swig of water and grinned at her. "Not just people, Allie. He can create whole worlds."
Chapter Eighteen
Tammy liked to test herself.
Most often, she liked to test her range, especially since it always seemed to be expanding. These days, she was certain it was about a mile in either direction, although she wasn't entirely sure how far a mile was. People who drove cars always seemed to know how long a mile was, and since she was supposed to get her driver's license soon, maybe she would soon know just how far a mile was. Heck, maybe it was even two miles!
She shrugged at that. One, two, or even three, it didn't really matter. She only knew that it was far. Like real far.
Even now, with her tuners (as she thought of it) stretched out as far as they could go, she was fairly certain that she was picking up the thoughts of a homeless man crossing the street in front of the Hungry Bear on Harbor and Bastanchury. His thoughts were faint, almost too faint to hear, but she tuned into them anyway, because why not? She was bored, sitting here alone on her front porch, with the sun angling directly into her eyes, while her mother was off jogging with Allison, and probably drinking too much-and certainly talking too much.
The man crossing the street was hungry. Tammy couldn't yet feel others' emotions-she tried to do that once, when she had heard about 'empaths'-but she could certainly hear his thoughts, and he was wishing like crazy that someone would come out of the Hungry Bear and maybe give him their leftovers. God, he was so hungry. He wasn't sure when he'd last ate. And then his thoughts briefly spun out of control and she saw static, and she was pretty certain the man was insane. In her mind's eye, she briefly saw what he saw: the restaurant and customers and cars and static. Now he sat on a step, near the restaurant, and hoped for help.
Tammy tuned out again. The homeless guy was bumming her out.
The Hungry Bear was, like, far away. A long, long walk for sure. Even a long bike ride!
Tammy was certain her range had just increased again, even from the last time she tested it just a few days ago. There was, of course, something else she'd been meaning to test, something that even she was kind of scared to test.
But, what the heck? No time like the present, as her mom always said.
That coming from someone who was immortal. From someone who had all the time in the world. And Tammy knew her mom was immortal, too. She knew it, and could see it. Her mom, like, never aged. Never even a little. Her mom still looked as young as ever, all the way back as far as Tammy could remember. Tammy knew her mom had been attacked when she was thirty-one years old. That had been over ten years ago. Tammy, now at sixteen-years-old, knew that she would someday look the same age as her mom. And then, after that, Tammy would start looking older than her mom.