Chapter 1

• She found herself standing in the kitchen and not sure why she was there. Blinking a few times, she focused on the room. No one else was in it. Turning quickly, she headed towards the stairs, almost running into her mother.
• “I thought you were coming to get a snack?”
• Felicity stared blankly at the floor. “I – uh – I forgot about a project.” She turned and backed slowly towards the door. “I’ll be back down after I get my outline finished.” She turned and ran with rubber legs towards the stairs.
• Closing her bedroom door, she leaned against it shaking. That was close. If they knew she was still having these – what? Dreams? Whatever, they would have her back in therapy faster than she could blink.
• Taking a deep breath, she quickly walked into her enormous closet and closed the door behind her. She knelt on the floor and pulled the shoebox out from its hiding place under the bottom shelf. Pulling the notebook out, she flipped to the first blank page.
• Closing her eyes, she wrote without really looking at it, what she could remember. It hadn’t been anything terrible or earth-shattering, but she still wrote it down.
• After she finished, she closed the notebook, then carefully hid it back in its secret place. Sitting back against the wall she wrapped her arms around her waist and hugged herself.
• Still feeling a little shaky, she took a few deep breaths—at least she didn’t pass out or throw up. They were happening more often, these vision things. She frowned; it was getting harder to hide the fact that she was still having them. So far, she’d been able to find a story fast enough to cover up anytime it had happened—headaches, upset stomach, or some forgotten project. So far, they were buying her excuses and mishaps, but she knew it was only a matter of time before she had a really strong one, and then she wouldn’t be able to fake through what happened afterward.
• She picked at the dress hanging on the back of the door; she wasn’t going to think about how her parents treated her. Maybe she was some sort of weirdo, but weren’t your parents supposed to love you no matter what?
• One more year and she could leave and fade out of their overpriced world.
• ~
• Sitting on the tiny bed, hugging his knees as tightly as he could against his chest, his eyes darted around the room. It was so dark and so quiet here--he just wanted to go home and see his mom. Someone would come; someone always did in the movies...
• A creaking noise made him gasp; he quickly looked toward the door. Pushing himself back further into the musty corner, he watched and listened.
• When it creaked again, he grabbed the thin blanket and dropped to lie down on the bed, squeezing his still damp eyes closed tightly.
• Felicity blinked a few times and looked down. She was standing at her kitchen counter, hands grasping the edge so hard her knuckles were white. Sighing, pushing the straying blonde hair away from her face; her hand vibrating.
• Closing her eyes, she took a calming breath. “I wished you would show me where sweetheart.” Whispering out loud made her feel better, even knowing he would never hear her.
• Rinsing her hands under the cool water, she patted some against her sweaty brow. Drying them quickly, she looked around for a moment trying to recall what she had been doing before the vision blocked out the rest of the world.
• The kettle began to whistle, startling her. Unplugging it, she shook her head. It could have been worse, you might have been cutting vegetables or something else that could result in coming out of it injured.
• If there was one thing she was thankful for it was that when it happened her body froze-- and that usually prevented her from too many serious injuries. Of course, it made life more complicated when it came to things like being in public or driving, both of which she tried to avoid.
• Taking the cup of tea, she went over to the desk and pulled the tattered notebook from the drawer. Wanting to record every detail before she forgot any of it, she began jotting it down. Taking her time, she wrote carefully, making sure she described every little thing—even going as far as the crunching sound the old rusty cot frame made as the little boy moved.
• Closing the book, she glanced at the stack of sketches briefly before she returned the book to the drawer and closed it.
• Sipping her tea, she tried not to fall into the depression that sometimes followed the visions. The helpless feeling of seeing, and not being able to do anything. It had been a few months since she’d had any—they’d started again about a week ago. In the first few there had been two children, but she didn’t know what happened to the sweet cherub-faced little girl that the boy had been so brave for.
• Getting up, she walked over and looked out the window at the quiet evening outside. She wanted to know enough to alert the police before she moved on. Felicity had accepted that moving on was inevitable—again. The judge had been the most understanding so far and she would humor him by showing up for at least one of her ordered therapy sessions.
• Looking away from the window, she rolled her eyes. Having been through it before, she knew how that would end, too. The therapist—of whichever qualifications this one had—would have all sorts of suggestions, theories, and of course, drugs.
• Having been through it all before, she wasn’t sure if she could do it again. Her parents actually once had wanted to help her, although Felicity knew it was more to save their social status than because of their love for her.
• After five years of doctors, five years of treatments, and medications, she fled as soon as she was old enough to legally moved around the country on her own.
• Winking at her reflection in the glass, she grinned. Now many, many years later you’re older and still fleeing. Laughing to herself, she thought that in appearance she might not look your age, but inside she was ancient.
• Setting the cup down on her worktable, she pulled the long wavy hair over her shoulder, quickly braiding it to stay out of her way. Better get this story finished before we’re on the road again. Looking down at the animal cartoon sketches, she grinned. “Let’s see what adventures we can get you into this time.”
• If someone had told her when she was younger, that she’d make a living by writing children’s stories—she would have fallen over laughing. But, desperate to support herself without having to be in the public, this had been the only way. Of course, her publishers no longer asked questions; they were just happy that the series of books from the mysterious B. Woods was a huge success.
• It was funny how money persuaded people to do things. The publisher was more than happy to wire her royalty payments to an account. She had never met them and kept all communications limited to emails.
• Pausing, she stared at the keyboard for a moment. Shaking her head, she continued with the silly tale—promising to check the missing children’s bulletin site again after she’d gotten some work done.
• Her cell phone rang and made her jump in the chair; she rarely got phone calls— who would be calling her? Glancing at it, the art supply store name came up. Setting the phone back down, she let them leave a message. At least she’d have lots of supplies when she made her move this time. Looking out the window again, she wondered which direction she should choose this time. Sighing, she grimaced. You’re almost out of directions.