And then it came, seeping through her fingers like a small storm full of cumulonimbus clouds of memories. Tracy smiled as the girl looked absently on at her opposite.

A young boy lay amid heaps of ruined cake, icing smeared across the floor. As the dog lapped it up, the boy’s cute face screwed up into a grimace of sorrow and despair.

Tracy threw that one aside, snipping at the man’s hair to cover up her hand probing the surface of his mind.

The boy was older now, middle school age, probably. His eyes closed, but Tracy could still feel the girl’s lips on his as they stood beneath the bleachers. Wet.

Tracy sighed for a second and stored that one away. Maybe. Suddenly, though, she perked up. She could feel a good one coming.

This time Tracy lay among garbage bags, sore and aching. An older man stood above her – no, him – and gave Tracy one last punch across the mouth. He ran away as a voice called from the entrance of the alley: “Brock?”.

Oh, yes. That one was good.