Free Earthquake by Unknown Page A

coffee, croissants, steaming eggs perfectly over easy, crispy bacon, and two glasses of cold orange juice.
    That’s right. We have
powers
.
    And unlike me, he remembered that little fact.
    But . . . have we actually resurged? I don’t know exactly what that means—what it requires. Just that it makes our creations permanent and gives us seven more reincarnations. I’m about to say something when I catch sight of the melted nub of candle on the bedside table.
    Logan created that last night. It’s still here. Does that mean that we’ve done it, that the clock on our lifetimes has been reset?
    A warmth of happiness and accomplishment starts to fill my chest, when I remember Sammi wondering if I was too damaged to resurge. Not Logan, me. All the permanence of Logan’s candle means is that
he’s
safe. And although that fact makes me gloriously happy, I can’t help but fear I’ve saved him only to damn him to seven lifetimes without me.
    “Think that’s enough?” Logan asks, looking down at the heaping tray. “Do you want to add anything?”
    I force a smile when what I really feel is a rush of fear. “It looks great,” I say. And no, I most certainly do
not
want to add anything. If it disappears—if I’m not good enough—I . . . I don’t want him to know.
    As Logan is browsing the tray, I clench my fist, peer at my bedside table—just outside of Logan’s line of sight—and create the first thing I think of.
    Now I just have to wait five minutes.
    Trying to hide my nerves, I dig into a croissant, only now remembering how famished I am. I was a little . . . distracted before. As I chew, it occurs to me that, at least as long as I’m with Logan, I’m never going to have to worry about not getting enough to eat again. I’ll never wonder if I’m going to pass out before Benson can get me food.
    I swallow that thought away along with the bread that suddenly feels dry and wash both down with a long sip of searing-hot coffee.
    The pile of food is completely gone in five minutes. Logan pats his bare stomach. “I’m stuffed.”
    “You’re a good cook,” I say with a laugh.
    “It’s so weird that I could just forget that I literally can have anything I want with a simple thought,” Logan says, and I have to struggle to pay attention. “But boy am I glad I remembered! Serious perks.” He stands, stretching, and all my worries flee at the sight of his bare skin spread out before me with such casual confidence. I don’t think he had that yesterday.
    I like it.
    “I’m going to go shower,” he says with utter nonchalance. Then he raises one eyebrow. “Join me?”
    “Soon as I’m done,” I say, gesturing to the nearly finished croissant in my hand. But it’s just an excuse. As soon as I hear the water turn on, I toss the croissant onto the tray, close my eyes, count to three, and turn and look at the bedside table.
    At a tube of ChapStick.
    I pick up the tube and rub it with my thumb, then sink back down onto the bed. My hands tremble so badly I can barely keep a hold of the ChapStick.
    “I did it,” I whisper.
    I’m not broken
.
I created something permanent.
    A glow of victory accompanies that thought.
    But how am I supposed to feel about the fact that, even after spending the night with Logan, the first thing I thought to make was a memento of Benson?

TEN
    It’s strange to suddenly start
making
everything I need. Soap, towels, clothing, hairbrush. I just think of it, and it appears. And even though I’ve known I could do this for a couple weeks now, my creations never felt exactly
real
before because I knew they would only disappear a few minutes later.
    Now? Everything is permanent. There are consequences. I mean, advantages too, obviously. But let’s just say I’ve spent a lot of this morning thinking about the butterfly effect.
    Honestly, I still don’t
like
using my powers, but I’ve had to sort of come to terms with it. It’s who I am.
What
I am.
    Logan, meanwhile, doesn’t