|| Amelia ||

"What do we do now?" Angie huffs out the words. She's slumped against the side of the building, catching her breath. Being so confined with such little exercise has made her unfit. But then again, I could say the same of myself.

Instinctively, I turn to Josh, and then I scold myself. Before, when I trusted him, when I believed he was on my side, when I thought those brown eyes had been warm, he would have been the first person to turn to. I was thrown into this new world, one of ice and terror; he was like an encyclopaedia to me.

More than an encyclopaedia. A lover.

Again, the scolding comes. I can't remind myself of the past. It's done. I'm never going back to it.

"We go to my house," he says slowly as though we're little children, "and we rest."

"I'm up for that," heaves Angie, and there's a smile on her lips.

Josh leads the way. I take in my surroundings as we walk. The prison is next to a fairly busy high-street with cars whooshing past and buses rumbling by. I eye the nearest bus stop, expecting us to cross the road to reach it, but Josh only takes us all down a lonely side street.

"Why not take the bus?" I ask him. "What are we doing down here?"

He continues walking, and I can see the tightness of his lips, the look of concentration on his face as he glances from side to side.

"Bus would take too long," he replies. "And we don't want anyone to see us."

"Why?"

He ignores me and turns to Angie instead. "Do you know how to travel?"

My friend stares at him like he's delusional. I'd like to think he is. "Of course I do. Who doesn't know how to walk?"

"No, not that travelling. Travelling." He looks impatient. "Travelling with your Power."

At this, Angie looks gobsmacked. "I can really do that?" she squeaks.

"I don't know. Can you?"

Now she looks excited. "Well, I've never tried it before."

"In that case," answers Josh, "it might be better if you don't. You can be a passenger."

I take a step towards him, and then retreat back; I don't know why. "This is a bit strange—travelling with your Power. What's that supposed to mean?"

"You remember when I found in the snow that first time?" he asks. I begin to nod, but then realise he meant it as a rhetorical question because he carries on. "Well, people with the Power can travel around with it. It's like moving around... in a snowstorm. That's how I took you home that night, but you were unconscious so you wouldn't have remembered."

I cast my mind back, not to what he's talking about, but much later, when I was in that tent with Sarah.

And so Josh saved you from that storm—acted the hero. He brought you back using that weird way of his, swirling in a storm and moving in that, Sarah had told me that time in her tent. Before her confession filled the air like smoke.

"I know what you mean," I tell him.

He nods. That's all.

"Gather round me," he orders. Angie huddles closer to him. I do too, reluctantly, because I don't want to catch that whiff of lavender deodorant on his skin or see the ripples showing through his shirt. I pull Maisie close towards me, sandwiching her between myself and Angie lest she tries to escape.

"Three, two, one—"

I have no time to take a breath. It gets sucked out of me, in the form of a gasp, as my body seems to pull away into the air. All of a sudden, my goosebumps surface, the hairs on my arms rise, and my teeth are beginning to shatter; it's like stuffing your head into a freezer.

"Open your eyes!" someone yells. That's when I realise I've had them closed. Panting for air, I peep them open to find the world a white blur.

It hits me, that surprise, so hard I almost fall back, but someone's fists are clenching the back of my shirt so tightly I fear there'll rip a hole in it.

All around me, there are clouds; white, wispy things that race past us as we cruise along. I glance down to where the ground is. I catch glimpses of roads, the tops of cars, bushy trees, and people from above. And my feet are standing completely still, but we're moving along at a quick pace.

It's magical.

Suddenly, my feet hit something hard, and my knees buckle, slamming me into something that feels like tarmac; the rucksack jostles on my back. A hazy glance around shows Josh's street and the others also sprawled around me.

"Sorry," says Josh as he brushes himself down. "I haven't really mastered landing yet."

The street is exactly as I remember; a quiet road with pretty, terraced houses on either side. His is the one in front of us, the sloping roof, whitewashed walls, the weedy, overgrown front garden. There are still patches of ice around, but nothing like all those weeks ago when I couldn't even open my front door.

We all potter inside. It feels strange, entering the house where everything began, when I first met Josh and his mystery.

Angie goes straight for the water jug, which reminds me of the first time I had water in this house, the first time I walked into the kitchen.

It is so small, so insignificant, but I still remember it all the same.

Angie swears, and I instantly know why.

"Look at the food!" she cries. "You literally have a fridge full!"

"The storm crisis is over," Josh replies, but I know that's not entirely the truth. When the storm was in full bloom, his fridge was just as full, mainly because there was actually no storm here as I later found out.

We gorge ourselves with food, and I see things everywhere. Josh reading his book of poems in the corner, me questioning him, a glass of water in my hands, shoulders tense, the painting of flowers in the hallway which were menacing by night.

It all comes back in a flood of memories.

Josh is saying something about getting some rest, but I'm too caught up in my remembering that I don't pay any attention. Finally, everyone clears off, and I'm still there, gazing at the table, wondering just how wrecked my life has become.

"You should honestly get some sleep," someone says. That makes me snap out of my stupor. I glance up to find Josh standing by the counter, hip resting against it, a kind of stiffness in his eyes. "We're leaving in a few hours."

The others have all gone upstairs, and suddenly it makes me feel so alone.

Without replying, I slip out of my seat, and Josh calls, "Take my brother's room—the one with the David Bowie posters."

* * *

I remember this room.

It's the one I woke up in, the one where I first saw Josh's bushy eyebrows. It is the one where I ransacked my bag to find he had taken all my things, the one where all the Davids look at me with their intense, Kohl-rimmed stare. I never knew it was his brother's room. Josh's dad and little brother faced the consequences, Zach told me.

This is where his brother slept, the brother who loved Bowie enough to stick a thousand posters on his wall. Here I am, sleeping in the same bed, staring at the same bits of paper glued to the walls, taking up the same space, breathing the same air.

I tell myself I don't care. Josh ruined my life; he lied to me, manipulated my feelings all for his boss, all so that he could feel good.

But I can't think that way for long. I know what loss feels like. I know how the pain hits you, right in the chest, when you lose someone. My Dad scraped his way out of my home; I thought he had been whisked away, only to come back a week later.

But the feeling of guilt is fresh in my mind. The loss, the pain, it is enough to destroy you.

Perhaps Josh and I are not so different afterall.    

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