My nerves ease up as Peyton and I lean on this wooden railing, which is missing a few columns at this portion of the porch and goes unraveled at the far edge.

The tension from that brief confrontation she had with me regarding the deliberate non-disclosure of my so-called superpowers has subsided since I followed her out of the darkened indoors. Maybe it's this peaceful sight of the night which has calmed her down, or her ultimately accepting my explanation as truth. Either way is consolation.

Flicking through the neighborhood, the ambiance fools me into thinking for a moment that everything is back to normal. The yellowish illumination pouring out from the windows of the nearby houses makes it similar to how I remember the street of our residence in Stephens was every time I'd drive home from partying with the boys. The dimness of the night succeeds in cloaking the fact that nothing is as it was anymore—hiding the ripped-open roofs, tumbled-down posts and demolished fences from casual inspection.

A gust of wind caresses my clammy skin. It isn't as cool as how the night breeze usually was in the Midwest at this time of the year, nor is it as fresh as it was in the suburbs, but it's a good thing it still exists. It's even surprising that we can still breathe rather comfortably, despite the complete lack of vegetation—and of any oxygen-producing organism, for that matter.

Maybe the Antes breathe out oxygen; who knows?

Getting a whiff of the trace of charred wood and gasoline in the air, I scrunch up my nose and turn my body opposite the road. My butt propped on the top rail and my hands slipped inside the pockets of my cargo pants, I twist my neck to survey Peyton and notice her staring at the embers with a neutral, almost morose expression.

"Again, I'm sorry," Peyton says, her utterance monotonous. She glimpses at me with those vacant, almond eyes, before averting them in a second. Both of her hands rest on the railing, a fingernail scratching the softwood surface. "I honestly thought you have been lying to all of us. Glad I was mistaken."

"Actually," I reply, dipping my chin to my chest and staring at my grubby toes, "there's something else I haven't told you."

She places a hand on her waist, while the other remains clutched on the lumber, as she faces me. "What is it, Ross?"

"The truth." I draw myself up. "The non-redacted version of it."

A stretch of wordlessness echoes these words.

Uh oh. Doesn't seem like a good sign.

As I glance up to meet Peyton's eyes, the tension from a while ago slithers back up. My cardiac muscles begin to contract like a stress ball being squished relentlessly. My palms sweat, so I pull them out and rub them on the fabric of my khakis. I wet my lips and suck them in to prevent them from giving away my nervousness as I await her response.

The look on her face evolves from pensive to suspicious. She cocks her head to one side and slightly raises an eyebrow.

I shouldn't be nervous, I tell myself.

The truth is out, anyway. Maybe not to everybody, but, sooner or later, it will be. Whether or not I permit it.

Now, there's no other path to take but one toward total transparency. Better the account comes from me than from someone else—someone who will capitalize on this lapse of judgment by spinning it into a malicious conspiracy that will make me appear even worse than I already do to these people. At least, I get to control the story this way.

It's a shame, though, that I've never seen this one coming. I have known since around day three what Johann can do, but it has never crossed my mind that he will eventually see through my cover. Heck, he may have in fact known all about it even before I woke up—maybe as soon as that moment they found me.

In retrospect, I wish I have told them sooner. There have been plenty of opportunities for me to do so. When they divulged the real deal about what went down with the planet. When the council questioned me why I keep having these prophetic visions. When Peyton and I first had our heart-to-heart after the raid. All those chances I blew for no reason other than my fear of trusting and being upset again.

As I mull over it further, I don't remember why I kept it from them, anyway. It's just a name, after all. Nothing awful can happen to me by letting it slip, right?

That wild suspicion I have of them being a crime syndicate has long been proven incorrect. I have also acknowledged the notion that no one from my loved ones still lives. Hence, I don't see anybody being harmed by letting the public know about my secret identity, even in the slim chance that they turn out to be undercover villains. There can be no Jonathan and Martha Kent for them to abduct and torture when demanding my surrender. No Lois Lane too.

"Don't be mad at me, okay?" I take her arm away from her waist, holding it by the wrist. "There's a reason I have kept this from you."

She focuses on her hand, then back to my eyes. "No, I won't be."

"The thing is..." I speak, without blinking, taking in the sight of her black pupils eclipsing the sapphires. "I'm not—"

Before I could spit out the keywords to my confession, someone yells from a distance, the voice reverberating in the silence. "Peyton!"

We turn our heads to where the call was coming from, and there Cora is, standing by the sidewalk two blocks away and handling a kerosene lamp. Clifford joins her, before they split up, marching in opposite directions. The two of them alternate in crying out Peyton's name, each call trying to outdo the other's intensity as if on a shouting contest.

No, not again. I will not be interrupted in yet another confession.

Resuming, I say, "I'm not who I—"

"Hold that thought," Peyton cuts in, snatching her arm away and hiding it behind her. "Something's not right."

Shit.

Another opportunity missed.

Cora treads the course leading to us, her braided tresses bouncing at the urgency of her pace. She climbs up the porch of the bungalow next door and calls out one more time, apparently unable to see us with our lamp left inside.

"In here, Cor!" Peyton hollers, waving one hand in the air.

"Where are you?" Cora turns around and finally spots us. She scurries down the steps and out the front lawn, en route to us.

"Hey! What's up?" Peyton walks on to meet her. "Weren't you already sleeping?"

Cora pauses by the gate, catching her breath. "We have an emergency!"

"Don't tell us we're under attack again," I voice as I approach behind Peyton.

Still choosing to discount my presence, Cora grabs Peyton by the hand and drags her away. The act harks me back to Sasha's hijacking of Wendy in the midst of my homecoming night confession—or in just about any other moment I ought to have with her.

Now, I still have no idea as to what her deal was. Was she jealous of me spending more time with her best friend? Was she jealous of our closeness? Was she jealous romantically? With her? With me? Was she a...

I snap out of my speculations, not wanting to make any assumption.

There, I realize Cora has set off at a lope, with Peyton in tow, lagging. "Brad..."

Overhearing Brad's name, despite not being sure whether I got everything else correctly, I tail them, running as well. With a distance beyond earshot, and the resonance of their footsteps and Clifford's continuing yells blending with Cora's speech, my auditory reception can't be that reliable. It never was, anyway.

"His whole body's spasming like he's being electrocuted," Cora adds, as I close in behind them, her tense voice alone confirming my suspicion.

Peyton wrenches her arm away and slows down. "Where are the nurses?"

"None of them know how to handle a case this serious, Pey." Cora backtracks and seizes Peyton's hand back. "You're the only one with actual medical background here, aside from President Moore."

My mouth slackens as I replay their conversation in my head.

It's not because Brad is also having the sight, is he? What if it is because of his injury? What if he's in a critical state? Or worse, what if he's dying?

I shudder at these thoughts. The sensation seeps through my bones, halting me in my tracks. My knees become frail, suddenly unable to support my weight. Holding them as I crouch down, I feel the same in my gut and lungs—basically, every part of my body twitching and tightening with each passing second.

Placing a hand on my chest, I feel my heart racing and pounding so hard like it wants to jump out of it. The moisture around my forehead condenses into a watershed and begins to rain down on my face.

There's no way this is happening. He was still jovial when I visited him a few hours ago, like he wasn't in any sort of pain. As a matter of fact, he even joked about probably turning straight with Peyton's magic touch.

Seeing as Peyton and Cora take a curve to the rancher a block more away, I force myself to get up. Then, I thrust a few careful steps before speeding up.

"Help! Somebody?" Alexander cries out, darting across the street. "Dad. The president. His body's jerking uncontrollably."

The two ladies turn to check on him. As if on cue, they both ask, "The president too?" Their voices as one.

He nods nonstop, bumping his fists against each other. "I don't know what's happening. He wasn't like that a few minutes ago. Now, he's pale as paper, and his eyeballs just won't stop rolling back. Just help him, please."

Peyton's regard oscillates between Cora and Alexander, her brows knitted together and her lids sagging. Her shoulders curl over her chest as both hands clench her arms. She chews on her lower lip and sighs, unable to make a decision.

"C'mon, Peyton. He needs you." Alexander drops to his knees and tugs at Peyton's legs. "Please, I beg you."

I screw up my eyes in incredulity.

Alexander? Begging? On his knees?

Such an out-of-character gesture!

It's such a marvel to witness an instance where Alexander would humble himself down to anyone. Heck, it's an even bigger marvel that I'd ever use the words 'Alexander' and 'humble' together in the same sentence.

Perhaps, desperation really does mind-blowing things to people.

"My brother needs her too," Clifford interjects as he looms.

Every one of us turns our attention to him.

Carrying a lighted torch, he stops right beside his kneeling friend.

"I think Bradford can wait," Alexander says as he extends an arm to him.

Clifford gives Alexander a once-over, without helping him up. "No, Bradford has dedicated his life saving us since we got back from the Vessel. It's time we repay the favor." He returns his gaze on Peyton who appears more troubled than before. "He was only in this position, because he saved us again."

Alexander staggers to his feet. "But my father is your president."

"I know, and I respect that, but—"

"Then, he should be first on the list."

"Well, he wouldn't be on the list, if you hadn't tried to kill him."

Offended by the guy's remark, Alexander throws a punch to his face.

Clifford wobbles, losing grip of the torch and crumbling on the pavement with his lips busted and bleeding. Wiping the blood off his mouth with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, he gets up and waltzes to his attacker. He clinches him by the collar and beats on him, Alexander's head tilting back with every strike. "I'm done with your assholery. I've been so a long time."

"Boys, stop it!" Cora squeals, both hands cupping her cheeks.

Peyton intercedes by restraining Clifford's shoulder. "Enough now, Cliff."

Ignoring the ladies' plea, Alexander knees his wiry, pint-sized friend in the groin. "Oh, yeah? Good! I don't need a coward in my crew anyway."

Doubling over and wincing in pain, Clifford falls off the curb and plummets back on the ground. He attempts to stand, but Alexander pushes him back down.

"You want another go at it, huh?" Alexander scoops up the wooden torch and backswings it with his two hands like a golf club preparing to hit the ball that is Clifford's head.

I run over to him and haul his arms down. "Calm down, buddy."

"No, you calm down!" Alexander retorts before smashing me by the ribs.

The blow sends a vibration all over my body, originating from the point of impact and spreading through my torso, up my neck, down my waist. The tremor transforms into mild, steady heat, then to meandering, burning discomfort, and to debilitating agony. My head feels light, and such a state sends me reeling, as I writhe with each twinge.

"Ace, enough!" Peyton shouts as Alexander readies to sock me again.

Seeing the torch head accelerating toward my face, my reflexes take over me. I toss my head to the side, and at the flick of a switch, the torch comes flying off of Alexander's grasp. I hold a hand up, but just as I am about to send a signal to my brain to lob him like his weapon, the sound of quick footsteps sidetracks me.

"Guys, the president!" Johann screams, his voice abnormally scratchy. "He needs urgent medical intervention now. Hurry!"

Alexander forwards an arm to Peyton. "Please?"

Holding each other's hands, they race to the house across the street, running past Johann, who follows behind them.

Prior to entering the door, Peyton looks back at Clifford as Cora and I hoist him up. "I'll be fast, Cliff. I promise."

Clifford presses his lips and lowers his head. Without a word.

The three of us traipse to Brad and family's temporary dwelling. Clifford finds it difficult to walk by himself, so Cora and I assist him on each side.

Upon arriving inside, I catch the group of people surrounding Brad, most of them muttering rather loudly to each other. While others are already getting their shut-eye, lying on their chosen corners of the living space, most are busy sticking their noses into whatever is happening with the poor guy. A few are actually in a queue up the staircase, to have a better view of the incident as if they're watching a theatre play. Even toddlers are joining in the fuss as they are being carried by their mothers among the audience.

We rake through the onlooking crowd to get to Brad. The task seems way easier for me as they automatically move aside upon seeing my face—one of the perks of being dubbed as a dangerous man.

There, Brad lies on a cot. Mrs. Tupper and Gunnar are on each side, the former dabbing his face with a wet towel and the latter holding his hand.

Brad looks rather well. He isn't convulsing. He's sound asleep, instead. He is pale, sure, compared to his tanned complexion, but he doesn't appear to be in a life-threatening condition, which is a relief.

"Hang on there, buddy," I express, hoping he could hear me. "Help is coming. Peyton's on her way."

Mrs. Tupper and Gunnar direct their gazes at me. Both of their eyes are red on the edges and puffy on the surrounding circles. Their downturned lips twitch as they suppress their whimpers, while trails of drying tears remain on their cheeks.

The chin-length-haired, blonde woman rushes to his other son beside me, checking on the cuts and bruises on his face, and crushes him in an embrace. "Cliff, baby, what happened to your beautiful face?"

"Nothing," Clifford replies as he stand there, unable to move a muscle.

His mother breaks it off, gripping him by the shoulders. "Did he do this to you?"

Clifford glimpses at me, then back to his mom. "No, Ma. I did this to myself. Ross has nothing to do with it."

"Well, I don't want you ending up the same way as your brother, okay?"

"I won't, Ma. I'm fine."

"Promise me."

Clifford bobs his head. "How is he?"

"Better now. Gun and I have been praying the rosary when you left."

They go on a small talk as they sit down beside Brad. Gunnar rises to make way for Clifford and snuggles next to Cora, commencing their own chat.

As I stand here by myself, awaiting Peyton, I become aware of myself listening as the mother and son recall their memories about Brad being a natural survivor. Mrs. Tupper reminisces how her eldest had measles at nine months old and meningitis at six and how he got through both threats on his health with his tenacity and will to live. Clifford, on the other hand, shares an anecdote about their near-death experience during scouts camping one summer, where they slid down while on a hike.

"Mom didn't know about this, because you convinced me not to tell her, but we almost died, both of us," Clifford continues. "We were both hanging by the edge of a cliff, holding on to some planted rock. My hands were sore; I was ready to give up. You remember what you said? That it wasn't the time for us."

Suddenly, my sight becomes cloudy as tears collect around my cornea. I blink, and they spill off of my closed lids.

Damn, I miss Lola. Sweet, adorable Lola.

Clifford's relationship with Brad reminds me of what I had with my sister. We may not have the cheated death, but I see myself in the former's shoes if it's my sister that's lying there: holding out to any semblance of hope that she'd live, no matter how implausible.

"And you were right. You are right. You said that we were going to live long, that we were going to achieve our dreams—you as the first man to land on Pluto or some far away planet and me as whatever I wanted to be. With that, we were able to climb back up and just went on like nothing happened."

"Indeed, we made it out of the apocalypse, didn't we?" Mrs. Tupper says, caressing Brad's cheeks. "A little more time, baby, and we're completely off the hook."

"Excuse me!" some girl, who I can only presume to be Peyton exclaims. "Let the paramedic pass, everyone."

Certain that it is her, I sigh a big one. It's as if I was holding this breath ever since we entered the premises. Or even long before that.

Just as I supposed, Peyton emerges out, carrying a basket of medical supplies. "Guys, we're out of Valium. What I gave the president was the last shot."

As if in response to the announcement, the rattle of metal on the wooden floor rings, hushing everybody and grabbing unanimous attention.

Clifford jumps to his feet. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Pinning Brad down by the arms, Mrs. Tupper cries out, "Somebody, please help?"

Like a bad cosmic joke, my good friend succumbs to another episode.

Seeing him now, I can confirm that this is not the sight.