(Excerpt)

By Lara Ameen

Content warnings: profanity, internalized ableism, ableism, non-graphic violence, blood

When a psychic wheelchair-using bounty hunter has a vision of her death from the scythe of a powerful grim reaper, she reluctantly accepts help from the charismatic thief she's supposed to ensnare to avoid her own fate.

To my PhD dissertation chair and advisor, Dr. Scot Danforth. Thank you for believing in me, even when I did not, and for not letting me drop out of the PhD program when I wanted to. Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to visit me in the hospital while I was recovering from multiple scoliosis surgeries and fighting my own battle with infectious disease in 2017. Thank you for your innate wisdom and providing constant encouragement when I have chosen to pursue numerous creative projects outside of my PhD. This is one of them. You are one of the best professors I’ve ever had. I’ll never forget you.

There are still so many people I want to thank. So, here we go!

First and foremost, I’d like to thank the Suffering the Silence grant committee for awarding me this grant. To Allie, Erica, and Amanda, thank you for the funds and giving me time to put together the best grant project I possibly can. It has also been so much fun learning about my fellow grantees’ creative projects.

Thank you to Racquel Henry and the entire team of readers at Voyage YA Journal for longlisting Spaer in their 2020 First Chapters Contest and 2021 Book Pitch Contest. You’ve seen potential in this novel and I’m so thrilled.

Thank you to actress Emily Rose whose fierce portrayal of Mara Cross in SyFy’s Haven loosely inspired the creation of my own Mara for this novel. You’ll probably never read this, but I want to make sure I thanked you anyway.

Thank you to my incredible 2021 Tin House YA Workshop instructor, Ben Philippe, and our entire 2021 Tin House YA cohort. Thank you also to the many 2021 Tin House YA Workshop friends I met during Zoom Happy Hours. Your notes have been so valuable to me.

Thank you to my best friends in the whole world, Cecilia Osornia and Jessica Pena. Jessica, thank you for always making me laugh and for reading my scripts and fiction stories in different voices. I can’t wait to hear how you’ll read my novel. Cecilia, thank you for always telling me like it is and cheerleading my writing. I truly believe that writing Spaer would not have happened if we didn’t write Mentors together first. Creating the world with you taught me how to write fiction. Thank you for creating the Mentors universe with me (writing the TV drama pilot together and then writing the countless Mentors short fiction stories and novel excerpts that would follow). I’m still hopeful that one of the Mentors novellas I wrote will be published someday. Our Mentors universe is never-ending and will live on forever. Cecilia and Jessica, I love you both so much my heart wants to explode.

Thank you to my incredible critique partners who have watched me grow as a fiction writer over the years: Lillie Lainoff – Reading your novels and short stories have genuinely made me a better fiction writer. I can’t wait until the world can experience One for All in March 2022 (and maybe someday The Keeping House). Your friendship means the world to me. Jenna Giarletta – You’ve read just about every draft of most fiction projects and scripts I’ve written. So grateful for your notes on Spaer since the beginning and I can’t wait for people to experience your novel, Define Reality, the same way I have. Lastly, thank you to Jen St. Jude – For loving Mara as much as I do! I love that you write College YA and I hope your novel If Tomorrow Doesn’t Come makes future readers cry and feel all the things like the way it made me feel.

Thank you to the two writers’ groups I’ll always be grateful to be a part of: Eddie, Shannon, and the rest of the Barmy Army. Thank you to Barmy Army writer friend Ann-Marie for your insight into Julia’s character and help with the Spanish keyboard. To Jen St. Jude (again) and her writing group, A Zoom of One’s Own. It’s so special to be a part of a queer writers’ group and share queer stories with every single one of you. Thank you for trusting me with your own novels and stories.

I am infinitely appreciative of other writer friends including: Erin Conley (whose writing wisdom I so admire and I hope we get to work in a TV writers’ room together), Nita Tyndall (who encouraged me to write this project when it was no more than a vague idea in February 2020), Jordan Rosenfeld (the very first published author I met when I was 15 who’s set such an example), Carly Heath (for teaching me so much about writing and astrology; honored to be your sensitivity reader for The Reckless Kind), Aparna Ramen (who gave me wonderful critique on Spaer’s early chapters), Cassandra Andresky (for your wonderful notes on Spaer’s early chapters), Hollie Overton (whose Adult Thriller novels I adore and showed me it was possible to be a hybrid TV drama writer and novelist), and Britta Lundin (who also showed me it’s possible to have TV writing AND novel writing careers at the same time; isn’t it cool that we both have YA protagonists named Mara?). To anyone else who contributed to Spaer in some way, and I forgot – thank you!

Thank you to the many TV series which have inspired this novel and almost every pilot script and piece of fiction I write: Tru Calling, Haven, Raising Dion, and many more.

Thank you to Mom and Dad for letting me pursue my novelist/TV writer/professor dreams, even though you don’t know how I’m going to hold down three careers at once. I’ll show you I can. Love you so much.

Bailey the Pomsky aka Fluff Butt aka Floofala aka The Very Best Boy. I know you can’t read this, but I love you SO, SO much! Thank you for being my emotional support floof, for the morning cuddles, and many, many kisses. Am I still your favorite?

And finally – thank you to the readers who are reading this excerpt of Spaer, especially if you’re a teen reader. So excited to share Mara’s journey with you and I hope you get to read the rest if it ever lands on bookshelves someday.

“I’m cursed because I can see the future. I can’t lose you, too; otherwise, I’ll have no one left.”
Tru Davies, Tru Calling (TV Series), Season 1, Episode 3, ‘Brother’s Keeper’

There are three things I know right now: 1. This semester of high school is already kicking my ass. 2. Being a bounty hunter is also kicking my ass. 3. On my 17th birthday, the night I almost died, I gained powers instead.

No one gives you a rulebook for this stuff. It’s been six months and I’m still learning to hone my ability. I train with a group of bounty hunters who have different powers. The others call me a Spaer because my power allows me to see the future or at least a glimpse of it. “Spae” means to foretell or to predict.

The most important part of training is honing our concentration. Once I’m able to concentrate, the whirlwind of commotion silences in my head. I draw a deep breath.

My mind opens, clears a path, and I forge ahead.

Being a bounty hunter doesn’t necessarily mean physical agility. There is a mental aspect to it as well. Sharpening intuition until it gleams like the end of a knife. Heightened awareness of the slightest hint at movement.

Pinpoint the target.

Aim carefully.

A choreographed dance of precision and stealth.

Patience.

But my mind is always in motion. Synapses firing. I’d learned about that in AP Psychology last year.

Unfortunately, being a psychic bounty hunter isn’t something that can go on college applications. It will not give me a competitive edge to the screenwriting scholarship I’ve applied for either.

The warehouse where I train with the other bounty hunters is about twenty miles from an upper middle-class neighborhood in Los Angeles. The weathered building serves several functions. The front masquerades as a jewelry shop run by Emily Germaine, a sweet woman in her mid-twenties. We usually train in the back rooms.

I used to wish we had a better space – a bigger space – but now I like it here. The back rooms are intimate and cozy, the way not much else is in Los Angeles. Away from prying eyes, paparazzi, and the latest social media influencer’s YouTube channel.

Cobwebs cling to the plaster white walls. Dust covers the crevices, the uneven cracks and rough edges that surround me. The rooms haven’t been cleaned properly in months. I sit in the middle of one of them, eyes closed, alone.

I’m learning techniques to calm my mind. Especially with my visions.

They ignite the spark, snapshots in quick succession, crisp and abrupt. A glimpse of what has yet to occur.

When the visions happen, my heartbeat accelerates, pulse quickens. It’s like a jolt of caffeine from drinking a can of Redbull, but more extreme.

Real. Pulsing.

I can’t control when or where I’ll get my visions, but I can control what happens after them.

My head is clear with no interference from the outside world when suddenly a series of images unfurl in my mind. A vision slams into me. One I don’t anticipate.

Five seconds.

One.

An overturned garbage can.

Two.

A hand clenching thin colorful fabric.

Three.

The glimmer of a knife against bare skin.

Four.

Smooth black leather.

Five.

The brilliant shade of emerald, green.

My eyes snap open.

Huge droplets of rain splatter onto the ground the following afternoon. Pound against the windows.

Water cascades downward as I stare beyond it and the city of Los Angeles rushes past. Another gloomy fall day.

My twenty-three-year-old sister, Shira, drives the wheelchair van carefully on days like today, wary of rain-slicked pavement and sloshing puddles.

I can’t drive because of an invisible sensory disability called hyperacusis that causes me to have a startle reflex. I jump, scaring easily with sudden loud noises. Sometimes it can be painful. My best friend Jasmine got her license last year and many of the other students who go to Tanzanite Valley High School of the Arts at least have their permits. Sometimes I wish I could drive – if only to have more freedom and not have to rely on Shira or the Metro city bus to take me places – but other times, I’ve come to terms with the situation.

I have cerebral palsy and use a power wheelchair to get around. My wheelchair gives me the freedom and independence to navigate the crowded hallways of Tanzanite Valley High School of the Arts, to focus on the intricacies of my training as a bounty hunter without added fatigue.

“…Mara?”

Shira’s voice slices through my reverie. Her eyes, the simmering color of burnt butter, stare back at me through the rearview mirror. Dark ringlets of hair curl at the edges of her shoulders. A frown creases her brow, lips pursed in a thin line.

“Rough day at school?”

I shrug. “Had a Pre-Calc test. Not sure how I did, though. Remind me why I need Pre Calc to get into film school?”

“Four years of math is a necessary evil,” she replies. “But something else is bothering you. My ‘sister senses’ are tingling.”

I hate it when Shira mentions her ‘sister senses.’ Having ‘sister senses’ doesn’t make her psychic. She isn’t able to see into the future, but she knows how to read my facial expressions and I find it annoying.

“Bianca’s going for the same screenwriting scholarship that I applied for. I thought she’d want to go to a university focused on art or photography. We’re not even in the same classes this semester. Why does she have to be so damn talented?”

“You used to love that about her,” Shira says. “We still have that gorgeous picture she took of you at Griffith Park before she—”

“I know.”

Bianca Greene is my ex-girlfriend. We started dating midway through sophomore year and broke up at the end of our junior year. She dumped me right after junior prom. This past summer, I went to a summer camp for teen screenwriters that ran for two months while she was doing an internship with some elite Beverly Hills photographer. By the time senior year started last month, Bianca had totally changed. Not that I hadn’t noticed something was off before that. There had been hints. Clues. Even when we were dating. Texts from uber diva cheerleader, Valerie Lainey. Bianca had told me they were working on a school project for U.S. History together. Now, Valerie and Bianca are the most popular girls in our grade and there’s no way Bianca would associate with someone like me.

Shira sighs. “I can’t imagine how much that break-up hurt you. But just do your best for the scholarship. Focus on what you’re doing, not her.”

“Yeah, I guess.” It’s easier said than done. Without the scholarship, I can’t afford to attend film school. My dream is to attend UCLA’s School of Theatre, Film and Television, but any University of California or private SoCal film school is too expensive without a hefty grant or scholarship. Shira has a steady job in the finance industry, but I know she won’t be able to afford my college tuition and pay the rent for our Los Angeles apartment. It’s been the two of us since Shira turned eighteen and became my legal guardian.

I try to push thoughts of Bianca and the scholarship from my mind. I need to focus on training now. Shira’s dropping me off at the warehouse, where I’ll meet with the other bounty hunters, before she goes back to work for the rest of the afternoon.

I lick my chapped lips. “I had a vision last night. I was alone in one of the training rooms when it happened. I haven’t told anyone else.” The images flash through my mind again in quick succession. This time, I don’t feel the same way I did last night. No accelerated heartbeat. No shallow breaths.

Shira’s features morph into something unreadable, indiscernible. “What did you see?”

I shift in my wheelchair, crossing my arms underneath my heavy raincoat and rubbing my hands against the back of my triceps. “Nothing I can make sense of yet.”

“If you ever want to—”

“I’m not going to quit.” My response comes out sharper than it should have, an edge to my determined tone. “You can’t put me in a bubble, Shira.”

As we pull up to the warehouse and Shira parks the van in an accessible parking space, the weight of unspoken words hangs in our silence. An argument that almost stirred the friction between us.

The doors to the van open, a ramp sliding out of the right side. Shira undoes the straps that hold my chair in place. I catch a glimpse of the elongated scar on the inside of her left arm and an involuntary shiver runs through me. When she’s done, my right hand moves to the controller of my wheelchair. I press a button and the control pad illuminates. My fingers wrap around the joystick.

I glide down the ramp with practiced ease.

Meeting Shira’s gaze, I stare at her through the droplets. I know what her eyes are telling me. They trace the contour of my face. We rarely talk about the incident that ended Shira’s bounty hunting career at seventeen or the event that almost killed me on my seventeenth birthday.

“I can handle this,” I say, moving forward to press a soft kiss against her cheek. Her eyes still have that same haunted look when I pull away.

After Shira drops me off at the warehouse, I move towards an entryway where I’m met with an elongated concrete ramp that’s situated at the back. I’m used to finding my way around places, rolling in through side doors or back entrances. This world isn’t built for disabled people.

I maneuver my wheelchair up the ramp and roll in through the back door. Someone was thoughtful enough to leave it open this time, so I don’t have to cause a ruckus by banging on it until someone can let me in.

I roll into the main training room where a group of about fifteen bounty hunters congregate for another session. Each person has a different magical ability and has gradually acquired the skills to hone their respective powers during our lessons.

Hester Germaine, Emily’s older brother, leads our group of bounty hunters. He’s twenty nine, but with the way he acts, I swear he’s going on forty. Emily was the one who suggested that Hester use the space for us to train as she wasn’t able to lease out the other areas of the building when she opened up the front as a jewelry store.

When we must involve the police, Hester and Emily are pretty good at covering up what we do. Hester knows a few of the police officers, especially when one of them thought he might be developing abilities in his late thirties. Hester deals with those who ask the least number of questions. Me and the other bounty hunters always end up shivering when the police become involved. They scare us more than many of us like to admit. Honestly, I wish we didn’t have to deal with the police at all.

Sandy brown hair flops in his face as his hardened hazel eyes meet mine. Hester is intimidating to newbies, but not to me. He’s never intimidated me. I don’t put up with his bullshit.

“Mara!” he says, a little too cheery for his own good. “Glad you join us tonight. Ready for another session?”

“As ready as I’ll never be,” I answer as I roll over to Sydney, one of the other bounty hunters in training. Short auburn hair frames her pale face; some freckles cover her nose and cheekbones. She’s nineteen and wants to be a criminal profiler someday. Major in criminal justice and work for the FBI. She can absorb copious amounts of written and visual information

in under a minute. I’m sure her ability will make her a viable asset when she decides to join the FBI someday.

“Let’s start by having a look at our latest thief, shall we?” Hester has an uncanny way of commandeering our attention. It’s part of his own unique ability as his voice fills every crevice of the room. An image of a handsome person oozing charisma appears on the projected screen behind Hester. Chiseled jawline with neatly combed dark hair, and piercing emerald, green eyes. He’s wearing a gray Henley underneath a black leather jacket.

“This is Elias Demetri,” Hester says. “He’s eighteen but looks older and uses this to his advantage. He has a record of stealing name brand expensive medications from several large pharmacies across Los Angeles, but no one has been able to catch him.”

There’s something about Elias that intrigues me. And then I realize: His eyes. A flickering second in my vision the day before. That enticing emerald, green color. I swear they could pierce through my soul. Could pierce right through me.

No one else in the group has a wheelchair accessible van and Shira’s working late tonight with some private client in Beverly Hills, so I have to get home on my own. The surrounding neighborhood isn’t particularly unsafe, and it’s still light out when I leave the warehouse. It isn’t raining anymore.

Streaks of pink, orange, and yellow paint the sky. Moments like this make me grateful I live in Southern California.

We live in North Hollywood. Our neighborhood is the perfect place for college students to live because of its proximity to a shopping center that isn’t overcrowded like The Grove or a posh place like Beverly Hills.

About a block from the warehouse, there is a bus stop with a dusty bench and a faded overhang. I wait there for the Los Angeles Metro to pull up to the stop about fifteen minutes later. METRO LOCAL streaks across the bus’s orange exterior in white lettering along with a splashy promo for a new Netflix series. I let everyone else get on; people can be so impatient, and sometimes I hear bus drivers say things like, “You should let the wheelchair board first.”

The wheelchair. That’s all I am to some people. An object.

The bus driver lowers the ramp for me, and I roll on, swiping my Metro card. I just loaded it online last week, so I should have at least five dollars left.

I roll into the space designated for wheelchair users and wait for the driver to strap my wheelchair down. He’s an older man with a pale complexion and a smirk that reaches his ears. He chews gum as he speaks. I hope he doesn’t lean close enough to spit on me or put his grubby hands on my wheelchair. Or both.

“Where ya goin’, darlin’?” He asks in an accent I can’t place. He’s definitely not from Southern California. Maybe somewhere in the South.

“Just two blocks. You can let me off at Rosewater Street.”

“Sure thing,” he says, winking at me.

I roll my eyes. He returns to the driver’s seat as a few passengers board the bus before he closes the door.

When I get off at Rosewater Street, I still have another two blocks to go before I reach the apartment complex where my sister and I live. Even in North Hollywood, these roads are not well-paved, exposing gaping cracks on the sidewalks and potholes in the middle of the streets. I manage down the sidewalk with minimal jolts, which I consider a win. I have about one more block to go when commotion across the street captures my attention.

There is a narrow path that divides two city blocks, carving out an alleyway. I always thought it was more of a San Francisco kind of thing with its sprawling Golden Gate Bridge and an ever-growing homeless population. But Los Angeles has a burgeoning homeless population, too, and the homeless love to congregate in alleyways, hoping for a decent place to sleep. I always feel bad as there aren’t enough homeless shelters in Los Angeles or even the entirety of Southern California to accommodate them and I often wonder how people survive on the streets without the comfort of a warm bed and a hot meal.

As I peer down into the alleyway, I notice an overturned garbage can. Two young men stand next to it, arguing. One is a teenage boy that looks to be about my age, wearing a black leather jacket and faded jeans, and the other looks a few years older wearing a faded orange hoodie as if to hide his buzzcut blond hair. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it doesn’t seem particularly friendly. I’m about to turn away and just mind my own business when Leather Jacket pushes Blond Buzzcut against the brick wall behind them, a fistful of Buzzcut’s shirt balled in his hand and a knife to Buzzcut’s throat.

Oh, shit. Maybe I should—

“Please…” Blond Buzzcut says. “I’ll get you the rest tomorrow, man. Please, my sister needs—”

“Hey!” I yell before I can stop myself. “Leave him alone!”

At the sound of my voice, Leather Jacket loosens his grip on Blond Buzzcut and Blond Buzzcut takes the opportunity to run.

Buzzcut darts out of the alleyway, and I think Leather Jacket is going to go after him, but he doesn’t. He stays still, watching Buzzcut sprint away, long tendrils of his warm breath meeting the crisp evening air.

His eyes snap to mine.

We stare at one another for a tense moment before recognition flickers. Those familiar emerald, green eyes.

I shut my own as realization sinks in and a memory resurfaces. My vision. My mind flashes to the projected image on the wall in the warehouse.

Overturned garbage can. The glint of a knife. A hand clenching fabric. Black leather jacket. The intensity of emerald, green eyes.

Elias Demetri!

But, when I open my eyes again, he’s gone.

I take a moment to catch my breath. Did I really see Elias Demetri? No bounty hunter has been able to catch him before.

You could always break a few of his toes, Hester’s voice rings in my head. I hate the thought of that – not because I don’t want to catch Elias – but because running over people’s toes is a tired old joke that nondisabled people love to use as an attempt to diffuse uncomfortable situations with me. It’s something I’ve heard one too many times as a wheelchair user growing up. That and comments like, “You’ll get a speeding ticket in that thing!” really grate my nerves.

I snap out of my reverie, pushing thoughts of Elias away, once I realize I’m nearing my apartment complex. There’s a gated entryway and I punch in the entry code, rolling through the pedestrian side gate. I weave my way through the row of first-floor apartments.

Shira feels safer in a gated complex. Our two-bedroom apartment is located on the first floor as there are no elevators that lead to the second-floor apartments. Finding a wheelchair accessible apartment in Los Angeles is incredibly difficult, especially at a reasonable price. Our aunt Ruth is a real estate agent and managed to procure a good deal for us when she helped Shira buy the apartment.

I head into the kitchen to see if Shira’s left a note on the fridge about dinner. Sometimes, she makes something on the weekends that lasts us the entire week.

A bright pink Post-It note is taped to the refrigerator with a $20 bill. I peel it off and read:

I took the last of the leftovers to work with me. If you get home before me, check the freezer for something or feel free to order a pizza. Love you! - S

I open the freezer and pull out one of those Trader Joe’s frozen dinners. I don’t feel like pizza. Placing the frozen dinner on a microwave safe plate, I set the timer for one minute before heading to the refrigerator to grab a cold bottle of water.

The microwave timer beeps, and I wait a few minutes before pulling out my now steaming hot meal. I grab a fork and a heaping pile of napkins before taking the food into my room.

As I wait for my food to cool, I pull the binders and textbooks I need from my messenger bag that hangs on the left side of my wheelchair.

While eating, I write down some ideas for a short screenplay and check to see if I’ve received any texts from my sister.

None yet. I fire off a text to her instead:

ETA?

I set my phone aside and begin to outline my next short screenplay, any fleeting thoughts of Elias Demetri already recessed in the farthest depths of my mind.

Shira arrives home at almost 11 PM and wakes me. I’d fallen asleep on my screenwriting homework. Sometimes I use my crutches to transfer into bed; other times, like tonight, I lean against Shira and hold onto her arms as she assists me.

“How did training go this afternoon?” she asks, brushing wayward strands of hair out of my face once I’m tucked underneath the covers.

I shrug. “I didn’t get any other visions. Hester’s his usual self. I swear if he makes one more joke about how fast my wheelchair can go…”

“Hester can be an asshole.”

I roll my eyes. “Understatement of the year.”

She traces the scar on her left arm absentmindedly and I force myself to meet her gaze.

I clench the blankets with one hand, holding my favorite stuffed animal, Kanga, a brown kangaroo stuffed puppet, in the other. I’ve had Kanga since I was three years old. “I had to start training sooner or later.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Just because you quit doesn’t mean I will,” I say. “I can do this and get into film school.”

“I didn’t want to quit. I quit because I saw our parents murdered in front of me, because something almost killed me! You shouldn’t have to put your life in jeopardy because I failed to protect us.”

Tense silence lingers until I speak again.

“Shira, I’m training because I want to, because I can. I know the risks.”

Without looking at me, Shira walks to the door, and flips off the light. My bedroom plunges into darkness.

It’s now Friday afternoon. I end up leaving training a little earlier than I do on other days because Shabbat begins at sundown. Shira and I were raised in Temple Mezuzah, a synagogue that practices Reform Judaism. We both had our Bat Mitzvahs there, and the synagogue really gave us a lot of support after the tragedy that took our parents and left Shira with emotional and physical scars.

Even though I had a Bat Mitzvah there, I never connected with any of the other kids in my Hebrew school class growing up. They were mean and made me feel like an outsider. Instead, I connected with Shira’s Hebrew school classmates who were several years older than me.

Shira’s able to get off work early on Fridays so we can observe Shabbat together. I want to keep the tradition going. It’s another connection my sister and I have to each other.

However, she has barely spoken to me in the last two days. Ever since the tension rose between us a few nights earlier.

I’m three blocks from home and even though the sun is about to set, I dart into the 7- Eleven that’s on the corner of an upcoming street to grab a few chocolate bars. I could use some Friday night dessert.

“Mara, good to see you again!” Julia’s at the register today. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. The fall semester at Los Angeles City College just started, so her schedule must be hectic these days. Like me, she spreads herself thin by studying for an Associate’s degree in Bio and working part-time to support her family. She also tutors introductory science courses to high school freshman and hopes to transfer to UC San Diego or UC Berkeley.

Every time I see her warm, inviting smile, I feel a flush of pride for her and her family, who, just last year, had been in a rough spot when Julia’s father was set up for a crime he didn’t commit. The Latinx community tried to pull together for them and ended up finding Hester and the rest of us. Hester was the one who got to catch the real culprit, and ever since then, Julia had known I was one of the bounty hunters, too.

“What’s up, Julia?” I ask. “Busy day?”

“Not today unfortunately. Let me know if you need help with anything.”

“Gonna grab a few candy bars,” I tell her.

I immediately make a beeline for the candy bar isle. I take my time, examining each shelf, looking at each type of candy even though I know exactly which ones I want. They are all within my reach, so I don’t have to ask Julia for assistance. I used to feel ashamed asking others to help me when I needed something, but now I don’t hesitate to ask. I grab two king size Twix bars, a regular size Reese’s and a Milky Way. As I reach for a Kit-Kat, an uneasy feeling comes over me and I look up. At the far end of the candy aisle, I catch a glimpse of someone watching me.

I access the person quickly, dark sunglasses, faded jeans, and a large gray hoodie. I briefly wonder how long Hoodie Person has been watching me but avert my gaze in seconds and go back to minding my own business.

My hand hovers over the Kit-Kat, deciding not to get one at the last minute. Glancing across the aisle again, I notice Hoodie Person is gone. It usually unsettles me when people openly stare at me because I’m a wheelchair user, but the way Hoodie Person had stared at me felt different. Like they weren’t staring at me because I use a wheelchair, they were staring at me because they were trying to figure me out. Deduce who I am.

I shake off the feeling and roll down the aisle, candy bars on my lap. I stop near the back of the store where the sodas and other drinks are kept refrigerated. I want a Dr. Pepper.

Grabbing the drink, I place it in my wheelchair’s cup holder, ready to pay and leave with my purchases.

As I turn, I collide right into—

Hoodie Person! I’d been so focused on getting my soda I hadn’t noticed that he seemed to have snuck up behind me.

Caught off guard, Hoodie Person stumbles backwards a few steps, shoes leaving scuff marks on the dirty white floor.

Before I realize what’s happening, Hoodie Person pushes a shelf in front of me as bags of every variety of chips imaginable tumble in front of me, blocking my path. Using this as a distraction, Hoodie Person sprints out the door.

“Hey!” Julia yells, startled by the commotion. “What the hell?”

Looking through the window, Hoodie Person pauses and meets my gaze. Lowering their sunglasses for a second, the piercing shade of emerald, green meets my brown eyes.

Elias Demetri!

But before I can process what to do next, he’s already disappeared.

Damn it.

Julia turns to me, moving toward the cluttered mess. “Are you okay? I thought the shelf hit you! Should I call the police?”

I shake my head. “I’m fine. The shelf didn’t fall on me. The police won’t do anything. Not until they have some real proof and there aren’t any cameras in here. I don’t want the police accusing you of something.”

I roll into another aisle and make my way to the cash register. Placing the candy bars and soda on the counter, I meet her gaze. “Are you going to be okay cleaning up this mess? I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Julia tells me. “Can I ring you up? I’ll clean up after you leave.”

“I’m gonna leave my stuff here for a sec. I’ll be back in a few minutes, and you can ring me up then.”

“Where are you going?” Julia calls after me, voice tinged with fear.

“To find the person who did this.”

Breezing out of the 7-Eleven, I turn left. It was the direction I saw him go two minutes before.

I roll down the street as fast as my wheelchair allows while weaving through a group of rowdy college students.

Once I reach the end of the street, I stop. I look left, then right. I don’t see him. Shit. He could be anywhere by now.

The traffic light turns green, and cars zoom past me, loud noise making me cringe. The muscles in my body stiffen and I cover my ears with my hands to block it out. Hyperacusis is getting the best of me, and I hate it.

The noise lessens once the traffic light turns red and the cars stop again.

“Looking for me?” I shiver, slowly turning around at the sound of the sharp voice behind me. Elias stands there, licks his bottom lip and chuckles, unmistakably familiar emerald, green eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. “Hello, Mara.”

I freeze.

My tongue feels coated with molasses when I speak. My cheeks heat despite the cool air surrounding us. “How do you know my name?”

He chuckles again. “Heard the cashier say it.”

“Ah, so you were eavesdropping.” I cross my arms over my chest. “It’s not like you could’ve thought of other ways to get my attention.”

He smirks. “Trust me. You’ve had my attention ever since you interrupted my business transaction in the alleyway the other night.”

“You’re a thief. You’ve stolen expensive medication from several major pharmaceutical companies across Los Angeles.”

“I see my reputation proceeds me.” He shifts his weight on the balls of his feet. “But I am full of surprises. That said, not everyone is as they seem.”

“How awfully cryptic of you,” I say.

I hate the smugness in his tone. But I can’t do anything here. It’s not secluded enough. He raises a hand in farewell as he turns around. “I’ll see you later, Mara.”

I don’t want to think about Elias anymore. I pay for the candy bars at the 7-Eleven, say goodbye to Julia, and make it the remaining blocks home.

I head into the kitchen, where the aroma of dinner permeates through the air.

Shira’s at the stove. We haven’t spoken for several days. I know she hears my presence behind her but doesn’t turn around. I try to keep my tone upbeat as I break through our multi-day silence.

“Something smells really good! Is that pasta?”

“Penne and marinara sauce with salad.” She keeps her answers short, tone crisp. “Yum. I’ll set the table.”

I take out the silverware and grab the challah in the plastic bag on the counter. Shira’s already put out the plates, bowls, and cups.

Two Shabbat candles adorn the center of the table. Shira turns the flame on the pasta to low, then walks over.

“Shall we say all the blessings first?” I ask.

She studies me for a moment, wrings her hands together, and hesitates.

“I shouldn’t have been so abrupt with you the other night,” She finally says. “I’m sorry.” “It’s okay,” I tell her as uncertain tension pulses in the air between us.

“No, it isn’t,” she says, sitting down at the table and pressing her head into her hands. “I just worry because I don’t want…”

“I know.” Shira doesn’t have to finish her thoughts. Even when we argue with one another, we eventually make up.

“I promised Mom and Dad that if something were to happen to them—”

“And you’re doing fine,” I say. “We’re doing fine.”

“But that’s just it, Mara. What happens when ‘fine’ isn’t enough? I don’t want to find your body somewhere or get a call from Hester that—”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that,” she says.

She’s right. But I don’t know how to reassure her in the moment.

“Let’s just say the Sabbath blessings, okay?” For someone who can see glimpses of the future, I don’t always know what my future will bring.

“Alright.”

Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, haMotzi lechem min haaretz. Amen.

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth. Amen.

Shira tears off a chunk of braided egg bread, or challah as it’s called in Hebrew, and gives it to me, then tears off a piece for herself.

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, borei p’ree hagafen. Amen.

Blessed are You, God, King of the Universe, who creates the fruit of the vine. Amen.

Both of us drink soda or water instead of wine at the Sabbath, but the intention remains the same.

She serves the pasta and puts salad in each bowl. We enjoy our meal in relative silence.

I want to tell her about Elias, about the fact that I’ve seen him twice now and I still have no idea how to catch him. He’s taken an interest in me now. I’m scared that Shira could be right. What if I’m in over my head?

Instead, I don’t say anything at all.

At lunchtime on Monday, I sit with my best friend, Jasmine Caldwell. Her long black hair is tied back in a long braid that goes down to her hips. She’s non-binary and uses she/her pronouns. Peering at me through crystalline blue eyes and puckering her lips which are covered in a light pink gloss that is probably organic and eco-friendly, she nudges my shoulder.

“Have you thought about who you’re going to ask to the homecoming dance? It’s our last one. Can you believe that?” Her tone is an octave peppier than usual, and she continues without waiting for my response, the smushed peanut butter and strawberry jelly on honey wheat still untouched in front of her. “Anyway, pretty sure Eulalie and I are gonna go. What do you think?”

My thoughts are drifting, and I can barely keep up with Jasmine’s words. I’m thinking about Elias, the knowing smirk on his lips, the glint of something mysterious in his emerald, green eyes.

“Mara?”

I snap back to reality. “Sorry, what?”

Jasmine waves her hand in front of me, an exaggerated dramatic flourish. It’s unsurprising coming from her. She wants to study musical theatre at NYU. I’ve seen every single play she’s performed in since freshman year. “Were you listening to anything I said?”

“I’m sorry. Just distracted,” I say, heat creeping into my cheeks. “You have my full attention now. Go ahead.”

“I said I think Eulalie and I are going to the homecoming dance. I want to ask her anyway. We haven’t discussed it much yet.”

“You should go with her. You’re cute together.” I take a bite from my turkey sandwich.

Eulalie Kim and Jasmine have been dancing around their feelings for each other since sophomore year. Eulalie’s parents emigrated from Korea before she was born. She attended the same middle school as Jasmine and me, but I only knew her superficially until eighth grade. When the three of us started at Tanzanite Valley High, I noticed Jasmine’s feelings for Eulalie emerge. They finally started dating last January of our junior year. We even went on double dates, me with Bianca, Jasmine with Eulalie.

“You should come with us,” Jasmine says. I know she’s only suggesting it because she doesn’t want me to feel left out, but honestly? School dances have never been my thing. I only attended junior prom last year because Bianca wanted to go.

“You know I don’t do school dances.”

“I know, but it’d be…” Jasmine pauses, as if searching for the right words.

Suddenly my sandwich seems a lot less interesting. Placing it down, I wipe my hands on a napkin, then turn to face her. “It’d be what?”

“…Fun?”

“For the two of you, maybe,” I say. “But I don’t see it. What’s the point?”

Thoughts of the way Bianca treated me right after junior prom cloud my mind. The sneer on her face after she…

“Oh, look, it’s Eulalie!” Jasmine says brightly, waving her over.

Eulalie takes a seat beside Jasmine. She’s wearing cute purple boots and a dangly gold bracelet. Her black hair swept off her face with a red ribbon. “Hey, you two. What’s up?”

Jasmine looks as though she’s two seconds away from putting her head on Eulalie’s shoulder and while I would normally find that a sweet gesture, something inside me snaps and I can’t deal with them right now.

I stuff the remainder of my lunch into the plastic bag it had been in twenty minutes ago. “I was just leaving,” I tell Eulalie, as Jasmine’s gaze finds mine.

“You were?” Jasmine asks.

“Yeah,” I lie. I hate lying, but I need to get away. “Got an eight-page essay for AP Lit. Might as well use the remaining lunch time. See you later.”

I balance the bag on my lap, then fling it into the trash can nearby.

“Mara? Mara, are you sure you’re okay?”

I ignore Jasmine’s voice as I head out of the cafeteria.

Away from my best friend and her girlfriend. Away from the reminders of Bianca and what the two of us once shared.

Past the obnoxiously colorful posters advertising the homecoming dance.

Instead, I roll into the school library and become lost in my imagination, the characters of my next short screenplay flickering to life.

I go back for more bounty hunter training throughout the week and on Saturday. The only day we have off is Sunday.

Sunday is the day I get most of my studying done. The rest of the week are cram sessions in between training sessions, and much time spent alone in the school library.

When I enter the warehouse, Sydney and several of the others are there waiting for our session to begin. Sitting next to Sydney is Rose.

Rose is another teen bounty hunter who joined our group a few months ago when her abilities emerged after her eighteenth birthday. She is extremely skilled in blade combat. Her shoulder length blonde hair covers the tattoo she has on the back of her neck. A knife slashing through a red rose. Once she aged out of foster care, she got the tattoo as a symbol of what she survived while living in the system.

When I approach him, Hester is being his usual annoying self.

The projected image of Elias glares at me from the wall.

“I saw him,” I tell Hester. “He was at the 7-Eleven where I was buying candy bars. He was dressed in a hoodie and knocked down a shelf when he ran out the door.”

Hester gestures to a secluded corner of our training room. “Were you able to confront him?” he asks, lowering his voice.

“Yeah, I followed him outside and he managed to sneak up on me. He knew my name because he heard the cashier say it. There were people across the street and cars going by. But there’s no way I could have caught him without making myself look suspicious. Too much going on in a public space.”

“You need to catch him in a more private place,” Hester says.

“The first time I saw him it was in an alleyway.”

My gaze flicks back to his picture on the wall, his smirk emblazoned in my mind.

I don’t see Elias for another two weeks.

Another two weeks filled with training, an Economics test, screenplay outlines, and the results from my Pre-Calculus test. I got an 85% by the way. I have A’s or A minuses in everything else so far, but math has never been my strongest subject. It’s not like I’ll be solving functions or graphing equations in film school.

Right now, I’m navigating the crowded school hallways, holding a binder to my chest and on my way to Screenwriting after getting out of the library when somebody bumps into me. The sudden movement causes me to stop suddenly, and my binder goes crashing to the floor.

“Oh, it’s you.” Bianca peers at me through her long lashes, smirking with her red lips. “You should really watch where you’re going, Mara.”

My face flushes when she joins a clique of other girls, Valerie included, as they laugh at me. My face feels hot, and I can’t speak, but I’m not in any state to cry either.

My heart hammers in my chest, pulse quickening. I look down at the spilled contents of my binder.

“Get out of here, will you?” Jasmine says, coming up beside me and gathers the messy array of papers, shoving them back into the binder.

“Why should we?” Bianca taunts. “We’re having too much fun.”

Still laughing, they finally walk away as Jasmine turns to me and finishes collecting the scattered papers that had fallen from my binder.

“Thanks,” I say, unable to say much else. My face still feels warm and heated. Why do I let them get to me so much?

“No problem,” Jasmine replies. “I’m sorry Bianca did that to you. She’s like the Regina George of the group. Still trying to make fetch happen.”

I smile slightly at the reference. “What did I ever see in Bianca anyway?” “It’s her. She’s the one who changed.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence that passes between us until I speak up again. “I’m sorry about the other day. Just seeing you and Eulalie so happy reminded me of what happened after junior prom and—”

“It’s okay. I just hope if those feelings resurface again that maybe you would feel comfortable talking to me about it. And I should have realized that maybe you wouldn’t want to come with us.”

Jasmine and I have been best friends since we were five. We met in kindergarten when she shared her animal crackers with me. She didn’t stare at me, make fun of me or ask me awkward questions about my wheelchair. It’s not that I mind being asked questions. I just hate when people make it weird and you can totally tell they’re awkward about it. She came right up to me when I was sitting all alone, coloring from a coloring book with my favorite stuffed animal, Kanga, a stuffed kangaroo puppet, on the seat next to me and said, “Want some animal crackers?”

“I know you always have my back and I appreciate that,” I tell her, breaking from my reverie.

“That’s what best friends do,” Jasmine replies.

When my next class is over, I’m smiling again, and Bianca and her Brat Pack posse are the farthest from my mind.

A few nights later, training ends late and Shira’s not able to pick me up again. My iPhone beeps. A text from Shira appears. Are you sure you’ll be okay?

I text back. I’ll be fine. I have my pepper spray.

I cruise down the unevenly paved Los Angeles sidewalk, looking forward to getting back to the apartment. Hopeful for a reprieve. Maybe I’ll watch an episode of something on Netflix before going to sleep tonight.

A shadow crosses my line of vision. I hear a noise come from somewhere close by. A homeless person darts out of an alleyway.

Maybe they were scared by an animal or something. Out of curiosity, I peer into the alleyway but don’t see anything.

Something compels me further, however. I decide to do some investigating of my own. I’m far from being a private investigator but being a bounty hunter comes with its own set of sleuth skills. I scan the alleyway again. Not much I can see except a giant garbage dumpster in the corner and a black garbage bag next to it.

There’s a noise to my left and I see the shadow of a figure move, somewhere between the garbage dumpster and the wall.

“Mara,” a familiar voice says from somewhere behind me.

Without hesitating, I spin my chair around and speed toward the figure, pressing them against the wall with my wheelchair.

Elias Demetri is effectively wedged between my wheelchair and the brick wall with a huge garbage dumpster on his left side and nowhere else to go.

“You caught me.” His wicked grin is bathed in the dim light coming from a nearby streetlamp.

I can’t look away, but I also feel an undeniable wave of fear. Not fear of Elias necessarily, but something else. It tugs at my consciousness.

I’m panting hard, smoky whisps of my breath curling in front of me. “I need to turn you in.”

“I know.”

As I’m about to figure out my next move, an unexpected vision grips me in its wrath.

Something predatory and dangerous arises from a wisp of black smoke and heads straight toward me. I catch a glimpse of a gleaming scythe.

It takes me into its deadly embrace, the scythe piercing through me as I’m being swallowed alive, swallowed whole. There’s no pain. Just an endless abyss of darkness.

The first thing I do is scream.

I keep screaming until I realize where I am.

In an alleyway. With Elias.

I’m not dying. On the contrary, I’m very much alive.

“Mara… Mara…” Elias’ voice floats toward me and his face materializes into view.

“What?” I ask, still dazed from my glimpse into the future. The inky smoke curling itself around me and—

“You started screaming,” he says as matter-of-factly as possible. My wheelchair still has him trapped against the wall. “I was trying to get you to come out of it.”

I gulp, trying to find my voice. “It’s nothing.”

“You looked terrified. You can’t tell me that was nothing.”

“How would you know?” I snap.

“I might be able to help you if you could…” He gestures to his predicament, my grip only loosening slightly.

“And let you get away? Not a chance!”

Elias grunts. “I have to say, this is getting uncomfortable. Have you ever had cement pressed up against your back?”

I keep one hand pressed against him as my other hand slips into my messenger bag and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. I’m glad I left my school binders at home and the handcuffs are within reach. I fasten the handcuffs to Elias’ wrists before he can get away from me. The keys are tucked away in my messenger bag, but I’m not about to go searching for them when I don’t need them. He stretches languidly, eyes never leaving mine as he pushes off the wall and looks down at his cuffed wrists. I try not to imagine any kinky thoughts that might be going through his head.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I say.

His jaw ticks, smiling wryly. “Very clever.”

I ignore the flimsy attempt at a compliment. “I’m supposed to turn you in. Why do you want to help me?”

“Your power as a bounty hunter… you can see things,” he observes.

“Yeah, so?”

“What did you see?”

“I told you, it was nothing.”

“Well, I guess you can untie me then,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. “That is, unless you accept my offer—”

“I had a vision. Of the future. Of my future,” I finally admit. “Something in an unknown shape came towards me.”

Why am I telling him all of this?

“Unknown shape?”

“Yeah, in a cloud of black smoke. And there was a glimmer of something sharp and silver. Like a scythe. I felt the scythe pierce my skin, but there was no pain. It just… felt like I was dying.”

“Interesting,” he says, running his tongue over his lips.

“That’s not helpful.”

“What do you know about the Angel of Death?” he asks.

I almost laugh. For a moment, I think he might be fucking with me. “The Angel of Death? Sounds more like a legend or a myth.”

Elias takes a step closer and looms over me. “More commonly known as the grim reaper. Sound familiar?”

“Maybe abstractly. How is that relevant to my vision?”

“Even as a thief, the Angel of Death isn’t someone I’d like to acquaint myself with,” he says. “But it seems like that’s what you saw in your vision.”

I shiver involuntarily, hoping Elias doesn’t notice. I don’t want him to see me falter. “How do you know this?”

Elias is quiet for a moment, pressing his lips together before evading my question. “What else did you see in your vision? What else was around you?”

“That’s all. Just darkness enveloping me.”

Elias frowns. “Are you sure you saw nothing else? No landmarks or lights of any kind?”

“Not that I can remember. It happened so quickly.”

We stare at each other for a long time when his lips quirk up in a slight hint of the smile, I’d seen outside the 7-Eleven.

“I know that look,” I tell him. “It looks like you’re planning something.”

“I want to make you a deal,” he says.

“I’m a bounty hunter. I don’t do deals. Besides, why would I want to make a deal with you?”

“You’d make this deal because it affects you. It’s life or death. Do you want to live or die?”

“What kind of question is that?!” If the cuffs loosen, how do I know he isn’t going to make a run for it and then purposely evade me forever?

“Assuming you want to live, I can help you.” He looks ready to pounce and I think he would have if the cuffs weren’t secured in place.

I refuse to falter in front of him. I’m not falling for his deceitful lies, the slightest hint of a smile on his charismatic features. If this were any other situation and he wasn’t a criminal, I’d be tempted to lean forward and kiss the smirk off his lips.

He leans toward me, his face inches from mine. “Tell you what. I’ll make you an enticing proposition. You don’t turn me in, and I’ll help you find the Angel of Death and stop them from killing you.”

“You wouldn’t.” I say, challenging him.

“Why do you look so surprised? If you uphold your end of the deal, I’ll uphold mine. I may be a thief, but I’m also a man of honor, Mara. I keep my word.”

I think he adds the last part in there to annoy the hell out of me. It works. “Fine,” I relent.

“Wonderful. We’ll meet again around this time on Saturday. And you’ll let me know if you’ve had any other visions between now and then.” He tugs at the handcuffs, as if to tease me, and his wrists slide out of the cuffs with practiced ease. My eyes widen. Damn him and his tricks. “Unless you think being seen in broad daylight with a notorious thief is a good idea. At least I’m charming and know how to dress.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re completely full of yourself?”

He chuckles. “I’ve heard it once or twice.”

“You’re impossible.”

He winks at me. “And you love it.”

I don’t. I really don’t.

I’ve known I am biromantic since I was at least fifteen. I’m also ace and while I’ve never experienced sexual attraction – not to Bianca or anyone – I can certainly appreciate people romantically. Guys. Girls. Trans or cis. Non-binary or cis. The gender never mattered to me. It’s always been about the person.

And even me, blossoming biromantic asexual, can admit that Elias Demetri is attractive. At least in the physical pain in my ass sort of way.

“Okay, then, Saturday,” I say. “We have a deal.”

“Can’t wait.”

He raises a hand in a farewell gesture, and I watch him walk away, until his angular form becomes obscured by the night’s darkness.

Looking up at the Los Angeles sky, a few stars dotting across the skyline, I see a full moon and wonder if that’s an ominous sight for what’s to come.

I hadn’t checked my phone since before my encounter with Elias. Three texts from Shira appear.

All some version of, where are you? Are you okay?

I finally text back: Yes. Don’t worry. Coming home now.

When I return to the apartment, I find my sister sitting on the couch in our small living room with a concerned expression on her face.

“I was so worried that something had happened to you—”

“I’m fine. Ended up going to a late-night study session over at Jasmine’s after training,” I lie smoothly. “I didn’t text you because it ran later than I thought it would. We also ended up marathoning Raising Dion on Netflix and we may have gotten a little too into it. I will text you next time. I’m sorry. Jasmine walked me home, though.”

“Remind me to thank her.”

“Anyway, I’m going to bed,” I say, yawning. “I can get ready myself.”

“Mara,” she says. The tonality of her voice stops me in my tracks.

“If there was something else going on, you’d tell me, right?” She’s looking at me with pure, open trust in her eyes and I know I don’t deserve it.

“Of course,” I say, and I make it sound so convincing I almost believe it myself.

I head into my bedroom and for the second time that night, a terrible thought emerges. I’ve just lied twice in one night to Shira. What kind of person does that make me? Does that really make me any better than Elias and his deceit? Am I not cut out to be a bounty hunter after all if I have to lie?

I kept tossing and turning last night.

Dreams. Nightmares. I may not have woken up screaming, but I felt haunted. Hunted.

I saw Angel of Death come towards me. Only this time I wasn’t able to scream. Behind the hideous grim reaper, I saw Elias’ face. Except instead of being charismatic and charming, he was horrifying. He was laughing, his voice reverberating all around me until I woke up with a thin sheen of sweat covering my forehead and my breathing erratic.

Thump, thump, thump.

But I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. I could only lie there beneath the covers trapped in the horrors of my own mind.

What would he think if I didn’t show up?

“Mara?”

Mrs. Gallagher, a woman with robust red curls and blue eyes that remind me of the ocean waves, finally catches my attention. I’ve been zoning out. Screenwriting is my favorite class at Tanzanite Valley High School of the Arts. Named after the expensive gemstone, it is a public high school that focuses on visual, creative, and performing arts. I had to submit a ten-page portfolio of my creative writing to be admitted as a freshman. Now, it’s my senior year and I can feel the pressure building, especially because I need that screenwriting scholarship to get into UCLA.

“Yes?” I speak tentatively.

Would you like to share the pitch of your short screenplay with the class?”

“Um, sure,” I say. “I want to write a sci-fi romance about a disabled teenager on a spaceship communicating with her girlfriend on Earth. I’m still working out the details.”

“Alright, well, keep working on it as outlines for your short screenplays will be due next week.”

I smile faintly as another student’s hand shoots up. I usually never want this class to be over, but right now it can’t be over soon enough.

Mrs. Gallagher keeps me a few minutes after class.

“Hey, Mara. I wanted to talk with you about the screenwriting scholarship you applied for.”

My pulse quickens, a jolt of anxiety going through me.

Oh, no…

“Is something wrong with my application?”

“No, it’s fine as far as I know,” Mrs. Gallagher replies, adjusting the frame of her glasses and pushing them up the bridge of her nose. Now in her mid-forties, she received her MFA in Screenwriting from UCLA and a Master’s in Teaching about two decades ago. Definitely a few years before I was even born. I started taking classes with her last year when I was a junior. This year-long Advanced Screenwriting seminar seemed like a good way to hone my skills before going to college next year.

“What is it, then?” I ask, rolling up to her as she organizes folders on her desk.

She gazes up at me expectantly. “I’m not one of the judges for the screenwriting scholarship this year, but I want you to know I heartily support your project. A short film screenplay about a disabled teen girl and her older nondisabled sister. Makes for a strong, compelling character drama.”

“Okay…”

Where is she going with this?

“I know how much this scholarship means to you, Mara. You’ve worked so hard. I just don’t want to see you get too down on yourself in case—”

I stop her right there. “I thought you said I had a good chance of getting the scholarship.”

“I believe you do,” she says in a tone that sounds mostly condescending and I try to keep my expression neutral as she finishes. “I just… I don’t want to see you get your hopes up too high or think that your… situation is a hinderance in any way.”

“My situation?” Already I can feel the heat rush to my cheeks. I hate when people tiptoe around my disability or have an issue with me writing disabled characters.

“If people have an issue with the disabled lead character in my script, then that’s their loss. I can only hope I wrote the best script possible for this scholarship. Have a good day, Mrs. Gallagher.”

I can’t take any more of Mrs. Gallagher’s well-meaning sympathy. It’s not what I need right now. I zoom out of the classroom, my rubber tires squealing on the polished floor. Tears threaten to fall, but I won’t let them.

Our school library was remodeled last year, and it feels like my home away from home. A place I can go not only to do homework, but to read books and screenplays I enjoy. We have a small script library, which makes our school unique because it’s something that is usually seen in prestigious film schools at universities. There are Dell and Apple computers with printers in the back with rows of books between the check out counter and the back of the library.

It doesn’t have that musty library smell from the odor of older books like most libraries do, but there are little alcoves sectioned off where students can read and write privately.

That’s when another vision hits me unexpectedly.

Images fly by like a grainy movie reel, each one more questionable and mysterious in intensity.

One.

A piece of folded paper slipped into an outstretched palm.

Two.

Blood trickling down a sweaty face I can’t see.

Three.

Elias staring at me with a curious, unguarded expression before his lips upturn in a knowing smirk.

And then—

The bell signaling the final class period of the day cuts through my consciousness, and I cover my ears to block out the incessant noise.

When I open my eyes as the noise fades away, I’m met with Bianca’s azure blue eyes. Oh, no. I can’t deal with this right now.

I shift uncomfortably in my wheelchair, my eyes not quite meeting her steely, penetrating gaze.

“You look like you zoned out,” Bianca says.

She doesn’t know about my psychic abilities or the bounty hunting I do. How dangerous it is. My not-so-ordinary life. I started training after we’d broken up.

“Nothing you should be concerned about,” I tell her, gathering the belongings I have spread out in front of me. My laptop and a binder stuffed to the brim.

I can barely manage to squeeze both into my messenger bag on the side of my wheelchair and yet, somehow, they miraculously fit.

“Oh, I wasn’t,” she says, bristling.

“Then why are you here?” Has she come to apologize for cheating on me? For flaunting Valerie in front of me?

Bianca purses her lips, studying me for a moment. “I just saw you sitting here and I…” “And you what?”

She stares at me for a beat longer, eyes softening momentarily, a flicker of recognition that she might finally—

“I don’t know.” Her gaze hardens and flits away from me. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

Before I have a chance to respond, she rushes out of the library, and I’m left wondering what the hell just happened.

The night air in Los Angeles has a frigid bite to it. It hasn’t dropped particularly low, but it’s cold enough that when I exhale, my breath curls in white tendrils around my face. I wrap my jacket around myself, purse kept close to my chest with my iPhone in the back. There’s pepper spray in my jacket pocket because it’s around 8 PM, already dark outside, and I’m about to come face-to-face with a notorious thief.

I roll into the alleyway. The homeless people aren’t there tonight. The garbage dumpster is still there, however, like it’s been all the other times before. I’m just a teenage girl in a dark alleyway waiting for a thief to show up. When did I become such a horror movie cliché?

I glance up at the flickering streetlamps, a stream of dim light flooding in from the lamp around the corner. The 7-Eleven where I’d seen Elias isn’t far away from here either. Why couldn’t I have met him outside there instead? Much less creepy and the inside is way warmer. Plus, 7-Eleven always has great snacks.

I shudder as I remember him knocking down a whole row of snacks to get away from me. Just then, I see a flicker of movement. Raised voices reverberate around me.

Peering around the corner, I glimpse Elias’ silhouette against the lamp’s streetlight in a deep altercation with another person, slightly shorter than him. I can’t hear what they’re arguing about because of the din from the street noise around me.

Slowly, I move closer. I have to hear what they are saying, but I don’t want to be seen. What if Elias is talking about me? He already knows my name, knows what I can do.

“I’m only going to ask you one more time,” Elias says. “Do you have it?”

A sickening crunch. A grunt.

“Shit, man!” the other voice says.

“Do. You. Have. It.”

Other Voice moans. I can’t see their face, but they place a folded piece of paper in Elias’ outstretched palm.

“That’s all I know. I swear! Info’s on the paper,” Other Voice pants, dark and male. In pain. Elias must have done something to him.

Drops of blood hit the pavement as I catch a brief glimpse of an older man’s bloody face. I know I should intervene but catching a glimpse of the older man has me frozen in fear. The depth of Elias’ true nature settling into my bones.

“Get out of here,” Elias says.

Despite his injuries, the older man rushes off into the darkness, eager to escape Elias’ wrath.

Elias, calm and collected, lights a cigarette. He exhales into the crisp night air, wisps of smoke billowing around him. He turns in my direction, and I lean back, obscuring my face from his view.

Dread pools in the pit of my stomach. I’m supposed to meet Elias tonight. Right now, in fact. But I can’t. The indelible image of the man’s bloody face in my head. What if Elias had killed him?

I can’t stay here.

Instead, I turn and leave.

When I get home, I head into the kitchen. I left a few hours before dinner, so I want to check if Shira left anything in the fridge. She’s working late again, but she should be home by now. I saw the wheelchair van parked in an accessible spot before I entered our apartment.

Her iPhone is on the kitchen counter. That’s weird. She usually carries it everywhere with her or keeps it in her purse.

“Shira?” I call out. “I’m home!”

Her bedroom is bathed in darkness, and I don’t hear the shower running.

“Shira?”

Even though we’re in a first-floor apartment, there’s a space outside that has become our backdoor patio area. When I go out onto the patio, I notice the door had been left ajar. Shira always locks it before she goes to work.

Where is she? She doesn’t have her phone, but are her keys with her?

As I turn around to head back into the apartment, I catch a glimpse of something shiny in the darkness. I lean over to inspect it closely.

Shira’s keys! Next to her keys is a shred of torn fabric, matching the cherry red skirt she’d been wearing this morning.

Fingers of dread and nausea wrap around me. Adrenaline spikes my heart rate. Shira is missing. Shira is gone.

Lara Ameen (she/they) is a screenwriter, fiction writer, sensitivity reader, and PhD candidate in Education with a Disability Studies emphasis at Chapman University. She received an MFA in Screenwriting from California State University, Northridge, and her scripts have placed in Screencraft's Sci-Fi and Fantasy Screenwriting Competition, Launchpad TV Pilot Competition, Austin Film Festival Screenplay Competition, and elsewhere. Her YA Contemporary Fantasy novel was awarded a grant from Suffering the Silence, longlisted in Voyage YA's First Chapters Contest, and their Book Pitch Contest. A graduate of the Tin House YA Fiction Workshop and Futurescapes Writers' Workshop, her short fiction has been published in Prismatica Magazine, Disabled Voices Anthology, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Drunk Monkeys. Visit her Instagram here.