Free Lightning Rider by Jen Greyson Page A

access to the lightning, to close the door, so to speak. Because it’s a reaction that occurs in the brain, we discovered a way to trip the signal. A simple chant, a short meditation is all it takes. The danger, of course, is that when it’s turned off, I no longer have the ability to trace the rider.
    “That detail never mattered until your father disappeared. After a week, I came to check on him, but he was gone.” He looks at Papi. “You all were gone. I searched everywhere I could think of, but you’d just . . . vanished.”
    “We moved. Right after Rafe died.” Papi’s eyes drift closed, and the words tumble out in a pent-up torrent. “I was upset. I wanted to stay with his things. But we were moving to America, of all places. It nearly killed my mamá, but my father insisted. He never told us why. I assumed it was the memories.” Startled, his eyes fly open. “It was you.”
    Ilif jerks. “No. It was your father. He couldn’t leave your mother alone anymore, couldn’t leave you. I understood his pain, but—to use your term—people with ‘superpowers’ don’t get a day off. There were people to save, alterations to manifest.” He stands. “People didn’t get saved, because your father couldn’t handle the pressure.”
    Papi steps toward him, raising his fists. “His boy—my baby brother—was dead!”
    “Not because of me. Not because of anything that could have been prevented. It was an accident.”
    “Why didn’t he go back in time and save him?” I ask.
    “It doesn’t work like that,” Ilif says. “Lightning riders don’t choose the when or why of their arc. I’ve spent years working on what determines it, but we still don’t know how each alteration is selected.” He turns to Papi. “Your father couldn’t accept that. He knew in his heart Rafe’s death was an accident, unpreventable. But he became obsessed with getting back to that moment to create an alteration. I did everything I could to help him, but we’d never been successful in pinpointing a location before. He wouldn’t listen to anyone on the team. He kept at it for days. He didn’t sleep, just tried to conjure the lightning over and over, but nothing worked.”
    “So if he couldn’t save his own son, he didn’t want to save anyone else’s?” I ask.
    “Evy,” Papi says, his voice low. “Watch the disrespect.”
    I twist my mouth and duck my head.
    “I don’t think it was that simple,” Ilif says. “Or that selfish. Rafe’s death crushed his focus, understandably. But he was so deeply affected by the loss, we were unsure of his future, unable to predict how he would manage the level of intensity he’d exhibited in the past. Lightning is energy. Powerful energy, that must be managed at all times, or there are repercussions, both physically and mentally. I consider both of you lucky to have managed it as well as you did without any preparation or instruction.
    “Your father stopped his normal routine of preparation. He decided that without some time off to recover from your brother’s death, his true essence of self—spirit, mind, soul—would never recover to the point he could arc again, and I agreed. It was why I consented to the break. I failed to realize he saw it as a permanent break. I foolishly calculated a few weeks would be enough.”
    “To heal the pain of his son’s death?” I ask, not bothering to hide the bite of contempt. What a dick. Papi seems so hungry for answers about his father that he’s missing the subliminals rolling off this guy.
    “People do it every day,” Ilif says. “They find a way to manage the pain and move on. They have to go to work, care for their families, go back to being a contributing member of society. Your father’s obligations were no different.”
    I’ll give Ilif credit—he’s a worthy opponent for a verbal match with a world champ fighter. 
    Papi recovers but only enough to stagger to his corner and ice the cuts before the bell rings for round