Deborah was true to her word, like always. After I banged on my piano keys for a while, my head started to clear, and I started doing the math about what happened. “Maybe it wasn’t an electromagnetic field.”
“It wasn’t,” she sat in her chair, next to my piano, with my dinner on a tray in her lap. “It was one of us. One of the hidden.”
I didn’t say anything, I didn’t need to. She was an empath, a complete empath, one of the hidden herself. She knew everything I felt, and used that to piece together a lot of what I thought. She handed me the tray of food.
After I half emptied the can of soda she’d got me, I picked up the sandwich, looked at it, then at her. “One of us, huh?”
She nodded, “I felt so afraid. So desperate.”
“We need to find them, don’t we. Stop them before they do this again, and maybe kill someone.”
“No. You need to,” I could count, on one hand, how many times she’d said no to me, and have fingers left. “She needs help. And I can’t do that.”
Deborah had one of those looks that said, “Yes,” and at the same time told me she was done talking about it. “How did you know which building to be in?”
She knew I couldn’t answer, that it was hidden, even from me. Something I felt, but never understood. “She’s calling for help, isn’t she.”
It’s Week 464 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. The prompt told me to write this. It didn’t ask. It ordered. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who show up every week.