So Harry and Pete lifted me, wheelchair and all.
Halfway through what should have been a smooth maneuver, I saw this swirling flash of a dozen tiny sparks of light, circling my head. My fingers tingled, just for a second. It was how Kurt described the sensation he always got when he felt other Lost Kids use their semi-pseudo-superhero powers.
All that fled my
brain, because for a split second, I could have sworn I saw Sylvia Grandstone
standing in the doorway, glaring at me. She pointed at me. There was something
in her hand. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out to be a gun. The
darkness behind her took on a dull sheen like a dirty oil slick, and it spun
counterclockwise.
That tingle turned
painful, like wintertime dry air static, cubed in intensity. The sparks darted
across the seating area, toward the door. Sylvia vanished—if that was Sylvia,
because honestly, what would she be doing back in town after all these years?
And my loving
brothers dropped me.
Have you ever seen a
wheelchair-bound woman fall out of her chair from nearly five feet up in the
air (two-and-a-half feet from the floor and another two-plus feet between the
bottom of the wheels and the seat, for those who are counting) going sideways,
with a "Take me now, Lord!" look on her face?
Ain't pretty.
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