I wish I had a superpower. Not many, just one.

I wish I could pile up the trillions of smouldering embers that inhabit every speck of my being, into a raging fire.

At will.

I am sure this brings up visions of super-villains that seek to avenge, to burn down everyone who wronged them, and demand respect by fear.

That is not my goal.

If I could manifest the ignition of everything I am made of, I would, to begin with, warm up every heart. Thaw out the coldness of a greeting, the icy, almost glacial ways of social media, and the frigid emotions of sceptical, ambivalent relationships.

I would go about burning down every irrationality, every fear, and every mangled and knotted rope of a cynical past.

I would, if I had this superpower, spread like a wildfire, and extinguish the jungles of hate and intolerance so that a fresh crop of love could bloom.

As I close my eyes and meditate with long, purposeful breaths, I feel the embers stirring and assimilating. They surge from the open mind across the wide plains of the heart, through the generous lungs and down to eager feet.

I am ready to take the first step.

Mara had assisted her brother-- her barely thirteen year old brother-- keep his unnatural hero identity a secret.

She'd kept silent at the table every time their Father who was part of a steadily defunding police department disparage a "young, brash thrill-seeker" with his suspicious eyes and mind working to furrow out any lies from what he had fed the media and an adoring crowd that day. 'The child's press skills,' he'd sharply noted, 'were a slow developing trait.'

Which unfortunately, had developed well.

Likely, had the right type of personality for such work in the first place. And it was with some grief that he remarked, "what a waste."

She was there with a hand under the table or a pressing look to at least eat one or two bites when the comments hit too close and too sharply.

She was there with an excuse for their parents, the notes to fool his most apathetic teachers-- and a note for herself to bring it up to their parents of how teachers in that middle school were hardly up to par-- she was there as his big sister to patch him up and put ice on what had been twisted or squeezed to intimidate or just-- to shatter his bones.

Turns out, she'd been the second to find out.

Her brother, he had gotten a partner first from his best friend Carson.

Carson, had been the one to help organize his affects if it ever became necessary. If Nick one day didn't come back. If he failed as Earth's front line in an intergalactic war.

Yes, her brother had been hit by lightning one day by the planet's designated guardian, because the woman had needed manpower. Why she chose a twelve-year-old, she would never forgive nor forget. She had her eyes on the motherly patron who came around every so often.

She'd found the rudimentary letters and even-- a will-- that he had written. Mostly who got what, as she was searching among the chaos of his steadily neglected room for a specific videogame. Where he had also hidden a thumb drive of police case notes concerning odd doll-related disturbances.

It was all in a girl's jewelry box, certainly no one who was allowed in his room would dare touch such a thing. He likely never figured Mara would become one such person. Or that she had picked up how to break these simple locks as a necessary skill as his big sister.

'Mara,

There are things you should know. About how this happened to me. Please don't blame Malloria for this. She did what she had to.

See, it started with that day. When there used to be stormy skies all day and everyday, lightning with no hint of rain and the gales of wind. When we could find bits of UFO scrap.

It was such a normal day before then, I don't think she had a plan. It wasn't "supposed" to be me. It just happened that way. I was the one on the court who got hit. The lightning hurt though I won't deny that. The pain alone, I thought it would kill me before I even thought of what lightning actually does do. Did you know that getting hit by lightning, you really do feel what it means to be so hot that you feel cold?

I woke up in the nurse's office, I guess my vitals weren't too messed up and namely, I wasn't a charred hunk of boy stuck to the pavement like wadded up and stepped over gum until it flattens over into a pink splat on the ground. Dried by the sun-- but back on topic.

From there is where my electrical powers came from and it came on quickly and suddenly. And also, I didn't get my costume through a transformation sequence. I had to make it out of old Halloween costume pieces and accessories that happened to fit the theme.

I did notice my powers building, it was sparks between my fingers, popping fireworks, the lightbulb. I didn't completely know what I was doing, I didn't know what was happening to me. What I did eventually know is that I had never-- as my big sister and the person who seriously did pick up a lot of slack-- seen you scared. And you were scared, when Dad hadn't yet come home, when it seemed that he wasn't coming home.

So I put on a poorly made costume and went investigating. And yeah, that's how I found out I had the strength and super jump abilities. The first building I jumped off from-- please don't resuscitate me from the grave and hurt me-- I fought a bunch of mutant lizards in a fish factory-- that's where I met Jalen the first time-- he's an example to his species, unfortunately, and sure I didn't "save-save" Dad, but I made sure his shift ended well before midnight.

I seriously just wanted to help Mar. I swear, and I'm sorry. That that's hurt you.'

--Your brother, Nick.

Mara's breath shuddered once she finished, there were all types of other drafts, more and more pages to have been added for the initial letter.

There were ones for Carson and David. Not one for Mom or Dad. Oh God.

She took a deep breath and with a small, determinate flame, placed everything back where she had found it. Her brother would surely notice the lock broken but she would deal with that. She would tell him the truth, what she saw and what the plan was now.

She walked downstairs without the game, without the notes, Nick and Carson were still pored over the computer and its blue screen doing murder on their eyes.

"You guys should take a soda break. give me a shift," Mara said, pointing to herself.

The foggy umbra of a city far from sleep lay spread out before me. In all those old superhero movies, there was always the edgy “hero” posted on a rooftop, watching the people he had chosen to protect, and posing like a badass. I remember a time where I would have envied that hero like most anyone else. Now, not so much.

But after everything this world has endured, everything I have, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. The emergence of the Awakened almost burned the world to ash. We oohed and ahhed at the fantastical things we saw, ripped right out of films, comics, and our wildest dreams. Until a man made of molten rock drowned Chicago in a lake of fire. Until a woman the size of an ocean liner, sunk half of the eastern seaboard into the ocean. When a child of 5 years old threw a tantrum so violent that it killed millions and turned most of the central United States into the Grand Canyon 2: Apocalyptic Boogaloo.

But against all odds, we survived. Back in the old days, they would have called that a miracle. But that was before miracles became commonplace. Back when people prayed for one every day, instead of praying that they could survive one more day without being subjected to another “miracle”.

But it’s not all bad. It never is, and that’s a life lesson that took an apocalypse, and a cosmic amount of irony, to sink in. We may have lost contact with most of the world when Activation occurred. But focusing on ourselves for a while hasn’t been the worst thing.

Ignoring the despotic warlords warring in the streets to claim the entire tri-state area as their “domain”, the tribal groups of sentient ex-zoo animals ruling what’s left of Manhattan, and the roving groups of cannibalistic electrokinetics running people down on their self-powered motorcycles like twisted ghost-riders in what used to be central park.

Just another day in New York, post-Activation.

My name is Adrian, but people around here know me as Void. I’ve been around for a while. As in pre-Activation. That was almost a century ago now, and I’d like to think that I look pretty good for my age. Something about my abilities stopped me from aging, unlike everyone else. Most everyone else, anyway.

I reach out with my power and slip into the shadows behind me, emerging an instant later out of the shadows of an alley below.

The first thing you need to know about life in this world of titans and self-proclaimed dark gods is that things don’t abide by the laws of the old world anymore. And I don’t just mean the laws of physics, or the literal “legal” laws. Haha, yeah no, we don’t have those anymore.

I mean reality. And “reality”, is whatever men and women like Apotheosis and Nirvana feel like making it today. And I mean that literally. Fucking worldshapers man, god damn. Then there’s the whole monster thing. See, whatever manifested all of us world destroying bastards into being, didn’t stop there. It decided that the world needed more horrible shit in it.

Now, even on a good day, you can just be going along with your day trying, for some ungodly reason, to fish some dinner out of the Hudson. Next thing you know, a two-legged fish the size of a small dog, but with biceps way bigger than whatever you might claim to have down there, decides that this time YOU get to be dinner.

But hey, that’s where I come in. I slip through the shadows and next thing you know tenebrous blades of inky darkness sprout from my own shadow, turning that scaly little fuck into sushi. You’re welcome.

At least that’s how it was. But then THEY showed up. Some busted ass Costco brand Justice League wannabes calling themselves The Saviors. I know right, fucking pretentious pricks. They came to bring “order” and “law”. But how do you bring that shit to a place where even the trees try to turn your ass into a light snack.

I know, a lot of things trying to eat people, very obvious. But trust me, when you think that the last thing you will ever see is someone being stuffed into a demonic tree’s mouth and seeing their arm being severed by pulpy wooden teeth as they scream for help and try to reach for the outside world one last time, everything else falls by the wayside in terms of worries.

Anyway, that particular bit of ever-burning nightmare fuel aside, I now find myself out of a job. Kind of. See, when the newbies rolled into town, they found it every bit as difficult to pull off the impossible as one would think. One being me, obviously. So, they decided to try and whip the local Activated into shape and form some kind of super-powered police force.

Now, I have standards. But as New York’s most well-respected hero, I decided to do them the favor of throwing my hat in that ring. Be the Costco Batman to Sentinel’s Costco Superman and all that. But then they fucking rejected me. Apparently, I didn’t pass their “psychiatric evaluation”.

“Narcissistic tendencies, acute schizophrenia and occasional complete disassociation from reality.”

So, because I believe in myself more than they do and occasionally talk to people who aren’t there, they branded me as a liability. You try living for a century in this world, never aging, and stuck watching everyone you love die to overgrown nightmare shrubberies and other horrible bullshit, and see if you don’t come out the other side a little less than sane.

I step through the shadows once more and find myself atop another grungy rooftop. I was here before they even bothered to turn their golden merciful gaze on this city, which was doing just fine without them, by the way. Mostly.

Okay so, they got the power up and running again. Whatever, we did fine without electricity for almost eighty years. The water? Tastes like irradiated flop sweat, but sure it’s on, I guess. The Volt gang…fine I’ll give them that one. Less cannibal bikers is a win for everyone, I suppose. But the whole turning central park into a community garden thing was all ego on their part.

Anyway, you might think that I took it a bit hard. Being that the only thing keeping me going is trying to help out where I can. You would be wrong. I took the news with dignity and grace. And then I put Sentinel’s statue through a shadowy blender.

I mean come on! The fucker has only been here for like six months and already has a statue?! I’ve been here for decades! Where is my statue?! Not that I need one, obviously. I’m not nearly as vain as that unbreakable bastard. If only his statue had been as unbreakable.

I chuckle to myself as I step from shadow to shadow, making my way towards the city proper. My completely understandable lapse in judgement aside, I decided that regardless of their unattainable expectations, I am still more than capable of doing what I’ve always done. Protecting the people of New York.

And when I found out that an invading team of so-called “supervillains” calling themselves the Doom-Walkers had moved into my city, well how could I not do my civic duty.

When a body came crashing down through a skyscraper window, broken and bloodied, did I hesitate? Of course not. When I realized that the broken man in front of me was the unbreakable Scion of the Skies, THE Sentinel himself, did I stop for even a moment?

Nope.

After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve died. Immortality is a bitch. Did I not mention that? Ah well.

What’s the worst that could happen?

My superhero/alter ego is, *drumroll*: Captain Procrastination Man.

CPM is at your beck and call in time of need. As long as the need isn’t right this second because I’m totally swamped with tying up scads of loose ends. You know, those annoying little chores that can’t be put off any longer. Tomorrow though, tomorrow I anticipate being free all day for sure…oh shoot, now that I think of it, tomorrow is no bueno. Let’s pencil you in for Wednesday after 11 a.m. but before lunch.

Actually, the rest of the week doesn’t work. My kid’s sick and there’s that thing I’ve been meaning to do. Can we push your need back a week? Whatever day’s good for you, I’ll set an appointment reminder in my phone. After I pay some bills.

Looking ahead, the holidays are almost upon us. I’m sure the associated chaos will be overwhelming. With my track record, I should err on the side of caution. Let’s put a pin in your need and circle back to revisit getting my assistance right after New Years. Once the calendar is flipped, I’ll be laser-focused 24ish/7(or 6)/359. You have my word.

Never fear, help is here, no later than January 3rd. That lets me remodel the guest bathroom, change the AC filter and get the cat neutered before filing my 2021 through 2023 tax extensions. Fingers crossed a winter storm doesn’t close the airport. Or I might binge watch Season 5 of Yellowstone. Either way, I'll make it a priority to answer your call for help. Or at least respond with a text before going to bed.

FYI, if I need to gas up the Avoidancemobile, factor in an extra ten minutes for travel time. Eighteen tops.

Stay strong. I’ll be right there.

It happened so innocently with the random interaction of a young buck spermatozoa and a leisurely, strolling ovum minding her own business on the Fallopian Way.

Assault!

Mixing of bodily humors! Interdigitation! Merger!

And from this fortuitous superimposition of overlying reproductive gametes arose...

WōMan!

Faster than a speeding muscle car. More powerful than an ulterior motive. Able to leap tall tales at a single bound.

And, who disguised as the fairer sex, leads a frustrating battle for truth and justice and the Imperative Way.

When there is a crime, you can count on WōMan to weed out the truth. Wherever there is injustice, you can expect WōMan to kick male ass! There, in her Fortress of Solitude, she holds court and sends the unfaithful packing.

In my opinion, if you want to be a hero, you should (as a general rule of thumb) have a power that you can use.

My power isn't anything cool or flashy. It's quite boring, actually.

I have the power of total self-sustenance.

Yay me. I don't have to sleep. I'm living a toddler's dream. I do't need to excrete, eat or even drink.

Wow. Really strikes fear into the heart of a villain, doesn't it?

I've been practicing Martial Arts since I could walk, so I guess that's a plus. Most popped think that my power is super-reflexes, but its really not.

Against a super-villain with long-distance powers I'm helpless.

But who are we if not risk-takers.

People's whole lives are wrought with challenges and they don't quit. It's been my dream since I knew what a super-hero was and I can't just quit because I don't have the most flashy power, and I'm not the handsomest hero, and I'm not really the smartest either. I have perseverance, and I know I can do this.

Plus I can work the night shift.

Name: Shadow Vortex

Origin: Once a scientist, he was transformed by a dark energy experiment gone wrong.

Powers: He can manipulate shadows, travel through them, and induce fear through nightmarish illusions.

Goal: Shadow Vortex aims to envelop Gotham in eternal darkness, believing only then can peace be achieved.

Nemesis: His main enemy is Lightbearer, who uses light to combat his sinister plans.

When his phone’s alarm rang, his entire body complained—the previous day’s rescue irritated his solar plexus, which affected multiple organs, and his spinal cord and brain felt sore. He abandoned the idea of going to work. Then he texted the store manager and he promised to cover the replacement’s shift, plus work with the time he missed the day before. He turned on the TV and lay on the couch, where he had spent the evening and night.

The second time he woke, he felt like somebody called his name or persona.

“O-ver-flow-er, rhymes with grower. Overflower.” the Overflower said to the TV. “Not flower.”

An onlooker filmed Ivy’s rescue, and the news broadcast froze the video and zoomed in on a red circle—his store name badge.

“Great.”

Fortunately, he lacked a dangerous reason for a super-secret identity, but if people knew his identity, they would ask him for help beyond his abilities. He hated saying no; he felt guilty about it. If he worked harder, he might learn to help them.

“It’s not your fault, Stella,” he said.

Ivy had a fresh bruise on her forehead, probably from the checkout counter. Her fresh band-aid suggested she felt fully recovered.

He claimed that his persona, the Overflower, had no relevance to his job or everyday life. The Overflower’s coworkers already knew his real name and the regular customers recognized him. Expecting them to remember a disguise seemed unrealistic, ridiculous, a waste of time, and too stressful. Changing jobs and moving were a hassle and overreaction.

At least the store did not tell people employees’ names. Outside the store, if somebody spotted him, he could always look around and say, “I don’t see him here.”

The reporter suddenly corrected her pronunciation Over-flow-er, rather than Over-flower. The Overflower’s mother called the station anonymously again, which embarrassed him.

The Overflower checked his phone. You said you’d be fine in the morning, the manager said.

“I said tomorrow. And I said I didn’t know what I’d feel like in the morning because I’ve never spent that long breathing for somebody else before.” The Overflower grudgingly agreed to come to work in a couple hours.

The Overflower had been vaguely aware of a toddler or preschooler in line acting his or her age. Later, he learned Ivy and Stella’s names, but at first, they were random customers.

Stella wedged her way to the front of line to ask if somebody could pay over the phone. The line proceeded, with Stella shuffling her items, talking on the phone, and helping Ivy with the tablet. When they temporarily left the cart to use the restroom, Dorothy demanded somebody move it.

“Dorothy, ma’am, they’ll be back in a minute,” Jake said.

“Well, they should move to the back of line.”

“If they aren’t back by their turn, they will. The little girl’s sister said so.”

“When a little kid has to go, she has to go,” Dylan said.

Stella reclaimed the position saying, “I got stuff we keep around like you said. Yeah, it’s under $200, but I’m not sure we need all of it now.”

Ivy chanted, “’Tella,” louder and louder.

“I remembered the coupons and sale prices, and the by the ounce thing.” She groaned, “What now?”

Ivy jabbered.

“You can buy pickles and the aminal quackers with your fun moving money, but if you want to buy it like me, you have to share them. They aren’t just for you. Go ahead. A kid’s soda, not a grown-up soda. It’s too late for caffeine and you don’t need any today. Mom, don’t ask Grandma. If the credit card can’t cover it, I want to put things back. And some woman is giving me a hard time because she thinks I’m Ivy’s mom. We’re not doing anything wrong!”

Ivy whirled around to the woman and shook her finger, her other hand on her hip. “You keep your eyes on your own work!” She stamped her foot.

Dorothy glared at Ivy. “Nobody likes rude little girls.”

If a smellable stink-eye was Ivy’s superpower, the store would have evacuated.

“Ignore her, Ivy. Strangers’ opinions about us don’t matter,” Stella said. “Want to put things on the container belt?”

“Yeah!”

Dorothy turned on Jake and Dylan, the bagger. “Are you laughing at me, young man?”

Jake intentionally dropped the customer’s change on the floor.

“I’m smiling. We’re trained to smile,” Dylan said.

“My turn! By myself!”

“Be gentle,” Stella said.

With both hands, Ivy slammed the glass sweet pickle jar on the counter, and ran back for the animal crackers, and again for the root beer, provoking crossed arms and two separate sighs from Dorothy. Ivy’s buzz cut disguised a couple of electric razor swipes.

“Did you find everything you need?” Jake asked.

“Yeah! ’Cause Mommy didn’t pick-up the pick-up.”

Then she handed him each coin and bill individually and named them, while Stella piled items on the conveyor belt. Dorothy tapped her foot.

“Do you take the caribou coin?” She held up a Canadian quarter.

“No, sorry.”

Ivy’s face fell.

“We live too far from the border now, Ivy,” Stella said. “I thought I converted it all.”

“I don’t have another coin,” she whined.

“You can have change for a dollar,” Jake said.

“Okay!” she said something undecipherable.

“Did a bad guy break the parking spots?” Stella said.

“It’s just old and broken.”

Jake counted the change into Ivy’s palm and Dylan gingerly passed her the bag.

“I’ll probably have to put some things back,” Stella said.

“No problem,” Dylan said.

“Do I have to put the kangaroo back?” Ivy asked, anxiously.

“It’s your one thing for being good, so you’ll keep it…Oh, I have a coupon app.”

Jake scanned a bunch of grapes the size of miniature plums. Dylan hopped the plush kangaroo across the counter to Ivy.

She chewed its ear while hopping. Ivy bounced off the counter, knocked her head against the opposite one, and fell down. “Oops, bonk. Ow. I’m okay.” She scrambled upright.

“That was a big fall. Look at me. You’re going to get a concussion sometime. Okay, go on.”

Ivy stuffed the tablet in the kangaroo’s pouch.

Dorothy rapped her fingers on the conveyor. Still owing money, because, according to Dorothy, she insisted on buying a frivolous kangaroo, Stella removed several items, decided against a few items, and called her grandma. Dorothy rapped her fingers on the conveyor belt.

“I want to go home,” Ivy whined.

“We will in a minute,” Stella said.

Ivy began flinging full bags into the cart, and Dylan pointed out the light, sturdy ones.

Sneakily, Jake swapped Stella’s Canadian dime with his American one.

“I can put more stuff back,” Stella said to Grandma, “I forgot about tax. Are you sure? Okay. Thanks.”

Jake said to Grandma, “The prepper day sales saved her a lot of money.”

Dylan volunteered to take her bags to the car in the rain, to avoid Dorothy.

“Uh-oh, maybe you need to use two—,” Dylan said.

Several eggs cracked on the floor.

“Ivy Eleanor Babbit!”

“Too heavy, so I taked them out! I’m helping!”

“Good thing I bought paper towels. I’ll clean it up.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it. And you need another carton of eggs.” Dylan left Jake alone with Dorothy.

Stella pushed the cart aside, saying, “Let’s get out of her way. We’ll go to a different line to pay for the eggs. Stay here and watch my purse.”

“And I came twice in one week because you limited the number of items,” Dorothy said.

Limiting the number of emergency supplies when not in a state of emergency made little sense to Jake, too, but he followed the store’s guidelines. He asked Karen (an unsuitable name) to come over.

Stella said, with more alarm than young children’s havoc usually called for, “No, no, no!”

“What’s up?” the Overflower asked.

Stella gabbled about Ivy choking, and she was performing the Heimlich maneuver and back blows to no avail. Red-faced Ivy was holding her throat and trying to breathe.

“Shut up, lady! My sister is choking!” Stella yelled at Dorothy.

Throughout the day, the Overflower learned what happened: Ivy, Stella’s half-sister, developed a habit of licking or mouthing things she particularly liked or felt curious about. To circumvent the rule about sticking things in her mouth, Ivy licked things, so her family forbade licking things forbidden to be in her mouth. If caught, naturally, she pretended her mouth was empty. Before entering the store, Stella confiscated a chunk of asphalt from the parking lot’s crack. Ivy loved Canadian quarters, so Stella placed herself on high alert. Halfway through repeating the rule, Ivy’s tongue disappeared, and she voluntarily stowed the quarter in Stella’s purse. A minute later, Stella asked what Ivy had in her mouth, and she did not respond. Frazzled, and in the middle of a request for egg money from her father that devolved into a fight, Stella asked what was in Ivy’s mouth. Ivy coughed, then lost control of the grape.

“She choked on a grape, and it’s completely blocking her windpipe,” Stella said.

Absorbing a complex organism like a grape required great effort and concentration, and he considered it too risky and slow. But the Overflower thought he could keep Ivy alive and conscious until a doctor removed the grape conventionally.

Dorothy complained about Stella and Ivy, but Karen paged for anybody with medical experience. She asked the assistant manager to listen to Dorothy. Also, the Overflower learned later, she told Dorothy bluntly to stop complaining and sympathize with a choking child; she encouraged Dorothy to help or leave the store, potentially forever, if that suited her best. Dylan privately said that Karen snapped, but if anybody asked, he called her professional.

Jake mentally adopted the Overflower persona. “I’ll use my superpower to give her oxygen.”

“How?” Stella asked, laying Ivy down.

“Like this.” The Overflower gently held Ivy’s head and transferred a burst of oxygen from his hands into her head. He breathed deeply and spaced his sentences between breaths. Even when the Overflower kneeled, he was taller than Ivy. He stared at his watch, analog because he concentrated better on the second hand than flashing numbers. He tried to breathe at forty breaths per minute, adjusted for time spent talking.

“She needs CPR,” Stella said.

“This gives her more oxygen than CPR.” And CPR has a low success rate, he thought. “Can I talk to the dispatcher?”

Stella began mouth-to-mouth.

“Stay still, Ivy. I’m giving you air through my hands. It’ll help you. I practice my superpowers, and I have a license. It’s in my wallet, back pocket right pocket.”

The Overflower took Stella’s phone off speaker as Dylan sprinted with first aid kit. “This is the Overflower.”

“If she’s conscious and not turning blue, she has enough air. You need to call your mom. Dylan, you need to get the backpack in my locker.”

“Why?” Dylan asked.

“It will help me help Ivy. The combination is 318. Stella, check the ID. In my wallet. Back left pocket.” He provided oxygen while speaking with the dispatcher and deterring Stella, who worried too much for the instructions to register.

“Are you beginning CPR?” Karen asked, while the dispatcher listed four possible endings to his registration number.

The Overflower put the phone on speaker phone. The Overflower laid Ivy on her back and transferred ideally one part oxygen, three parts nitrogen, and one part either of the gases or miscellaneous ones, his best imitation of Earth’s atmosphere. He sat next to Ivy, legs straight in front of him, the best way to prevent his legs from falling asleep. His wrist and hand on her head transferred oxygen and nitrogen, while a forearm across Ivy’s chest transferred carbon dioxide from her pulmonary arteries; he placed approximately the weight of a penny on her, but she objected. Instead of exhaling the carbon dioxide, he released it through his veins into the store’s air; the process incidentally diverted his carbon dioxide to his arm.

The Overflower and dispatcher’s conversation included: “I can’t dissolve the grape. I need to keep my hands on Ivy’s skin or clothes. I know it sounds backwards, but I’ll need oxygen before she does.” He hung up.

Karen convinced Stella to look at the ID. “Who’s the Overflour?” Stella asked.

Flow-er, the Overflower thought.

“I thought we had the Overthrower,” Karen said. “How’d Jake get the Overthrower’s ID?”

Ivy fidgeted and fussed a little, but the Overflower ignored it.

“Stella, I’m doing this.” He blasted Stella with oxygen. “It’s making her feel better.”

She shook her head and blinked. “How does that help?”

“Maybe you can’t tell because you have enough oxygen.”

Superpowers often felt uncomfortable and could be disturbing, especially to somebody unfamiliar with them. Few young children experienced powers, and then probably in a life-threatening emergency.

“Ivy, you’re acting like a big girl even though you don’t feel well.”

“She’s tough. You have to wait here for an ambulance. You’re going to ride in an ambulance so doctors can make you feel better,” Stella said. “She needs her blanket and kangaroo, but I don’t want to leave.”

“I’ll get them,” Karen said.

“Stella, have you called your mom?”

“Oh yeah. She’s on the phone.”

“Can I talk to her? I want you to hear, too. Stay here.”

“I’ll put it on speaker phone.”

The Overflower already felt out of breath, but he explained the procedure to Stella and Ivy’s mother, Beth. Karen warded off the store manager, Hank.

He interrupted the call to instruct Dylan. Dylan labeled a tiny oximeter 88% and put a tiny pulse oximeter on Ivy’s finger, which the Overflower let her play with on condition she wore it and showed it when necessary. Dylan rolled up the Overflower’s sleeves and, on the top of his forearms, wrote oxygen + nitrogen on his right arm and carbon dioxide on his left arm.

To explain the situation to Beth, the Overflower began with, “My superpower is transferring things between my body and something else. So, I’m giving Ivy oxygen.” The Overflower worried about gas bubbles in her veins, like decompression sickness or an air embolism. If I go too fast or lose my concentration, he thought. A doctor could check them, and the Overflower knew how to remove them. He doubted the doctors would understand his procedure immediately, and they would not predict the risks or complications. “Do you want the EMTs to treat her conventionally when they get here?”

“I’ll ask them about it,” Beth said.

“Parents decide. I’ll give Ivy oxygen until you tell me to stop, or the doctors remove the grape and she’s breathing on her own. You can change your mind any time.”

The Overflower had practiced breathing for years, beginning resting and calm and working up to exercising heavily. His times varied. He did not tell Beth how long he could transfer oxygen to Ivy or the amounts, and he did not guarantee survival or a lack of brain damage.

Beth needed to speak with her husband, so Stella listened for her to return.

People gawked. The gasses flowed invisibly and the Overflower considered adding colors, smells, and the like unreliable and potentially dangerous. It would tire him too quickly.

The store’s ambient noises drowned out his watch’s tick-tock, but he imagined it. Lightheaded, and feeling like he had been lightly exercising, the Overflower tried to slow his breathing to forty breaths per minute. If he breathed at a young child’s rate, he would hyperventilate, which was counterproductive. Using superpowers affected the person’s breathing, too, but the Overflower accounted for it.

Why do I feel like this? Because you don’t talk during practice.

He told Hank that he could not breathe and talk at the same time, and Stella promptly whispered in his ear, “I can get away with telling people to shut up. Want me to? Just nod or shake your head.” He shrugged.

Hank implied that, along with worrying about Ivy as a choking preschooler, he worried about liability. He patronized Ivy, often in baby talk. At least he held Stella’s items and replaced spoiled ones for free.

Between listening distractedly to Hank and comforting Ivy, Stella eyed the Overflower.

Ivy’s heartrate rose during the baby talk, according to the pulse oximeter. The Overflower felt her heartbeat, but it felt the same as before.

Go away, Hank, the Overflower thought.

“Although, of course, the Overflower will make you feel better, poor little Ivy,” Hank said, patting her hand.

No! the Overflower thought.

Ivy folded her arms, wedging her hands under her armpits. She wore a robot T-shirt.

“And you can go home and play tea party with your kangaroo!”

Ivy’s stink-eye surpassed the one given to Dorothy, and she wriggled hard.

“She’s going to kick you,” Stella said.

Hank dodged, and Stella idly intercepted Ivy’s leg on the downward swing, during which the Overflower noticed somebody had scribbled on her sneakers with permanent markers.

The pulse oximeter showed good oxygen levels, but the Overflower also thought Ivy’s deliberateness indicated she felt oxygenated. If she felt oxygen-starved, he thought, she would be feeble. Or I’m damaging the aggression part in her brain, he thought. No, it’s an approved procedure. But it can still hurt her.

“Ivy, only kick bad guys,” Stella said, neutrally.

If Ivy could have huffed, she would have. She opened and shut her mouth as if jabbering, and stopped abruptly, worried.

“Hank, we’re trying to keep Ivy calm and quiet, and she needs to rest.” He hoped it sounded more tactful than, Shut up, Hank!

“If everything’s fine here, I’ll check back in a minute.”

“No need, but thanks,” Stella said.

“Is it okay if Karen stays?” The Overflower thought she might comfort Stella.

“Yeah,” she said.

“I’ll be over there,” Dylan said.

Karen professionally shooed the crowd, also asking if they could help, without success.

Ivy seethed at the Overflower, but she clearly restrained herself.

Stella said, “He’s helping you. You have to put up with it.”

“I know it feels bad,” he said. “Does something hurt?”

She pointed to her neck.

“I’m sorry. It’s probably the grape. Sometimes the air I put in people hurts. If something hurts, point to where it hurts.”

She nodded.

“She’s tough,” Stella said.

“Even if it goes away in a second, you need to tell me. Don’t be tough about it.”

Ivy nodded.

The Overflower transferred the air slowly and smoothly to prevent gas bubbles. “Ivy, when I give people a lot of air, sometimes I make a face. It’s okay.”What else do kids like to know? he thought. “Stella understands what you need, so she’ll tell me. Okay?”

Ivy nodded.

“We’ll give you a minute alone,” Stella said. She whispered in the Overflower’s ear, “If something happens to you, Ivy will die, so if you need something, tell me.”

The Overflower nodded.

“Will you get confused and take oxygen from her?”

“I’ll stop before then. It takes effort.”

“What if you get confused?”

“I stop automatically if I pass out or get very confused. Taking oxygen isn’t an automatic reaction like a drowning guy breathing water. It takes effort.”

“Because I’ll taser you if you take oxygen from Ivy.”

“I won’t. I’d never, ever suffocate anybody. I can’t. And the gasses are harmless and don’t cause a bad chemical reaction with anything around us.”

Sweat ran down the Overflower’s face. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve, and Stella opened a tissue pack.

Karen stood behind Stella, waiting quietly.

“I don’t know why you’ve been watching your watch, but you need to see the hands, right?” Stella whispered.

“Second hand.”

“Do you need Ivy to stay still?” She dabbed the Overflower’s sweat from Ivy’s head.

“It helps. Saves oxygen. Helps me find the blood vessels.” Stillness saved a negligible amount of oxygen, but any way to save oxygen reassured the Overflower.

Ivy tapped the Overflower’s arm.

“Yeah, Ivy?” he asked.

She crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and failed to puff her cheeks, so she sucked them in.

“Is it a silly face?” Stella asked.

“No. Some people don’t like the face I make.”

According to other people, the Overflower developed a blank expression, relaxed if possible, but normally limp or dead. Sometimes he frowned or “looked intense,” as his mother put it, and his sister called it creepy or scary. Once in a while, somebody thought he zoned out. The Overflower knew he showed more confusion, agitation, or sadness than a rescuer should to the person in a crisis, but after a certain point, he could either concentrate on his superpowers or his attitude.

“Your arm is turning red,” Stella said. “Oh, good, here comes the ambulance!”

Ivy’s eyes darted around and she twisted her head.

“Hold still, Ivy,” Stella said.

“Good. They’ll take you to the doctor,” the Overflower said.

“They’ll take good care of you,” Karen said.

Ivy looked dubious.

“Ivy, I need to look under the kangaroo. Karen, you need to show the EMTs where we are.”

“I will,” Karen said.

She and Stella lifted up the damp kangaroo, and, as the Overflower predicted, the carbon dioxide flushed his forearm to the elbow. If the redness spread up his arm, he would worry.

“I’m fine. You can put the kangaroo down now, Stella.”

“Your other hand looks normal. Is it a problem?”

“No.” He diverted oxygen to the normal hand.

“But you’re really pale.”

“Blue?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m fine.”

“I mean, you look like you don’t have enough oxygen.”

Don’t tell me things like that, he thought.

The elbow he leaned on throbbed, and his forearm dozed, since the superpowers stopped it from completely falling asleep. His fists ached from clenching and releasing them in time with Ivy’s heartbeat, or as close to it as possible.

“I’ll keep Ivy distracted while you guys talk. Go along with her if you can,” Stella whispered.

The Overflower nodded.

Looking directly at Ivy worried him, but he evaluated her condition regularly. Overflower needed a major reason to alter his procedure, other than wondering if he did everything possible. If, from his own mental confusion he altered the plan, he might misinterpret the situation or forget how to treat her, therefore putting Ivy in more danger.

The EMTs felt like reinforcements to the Overflower; they understood part of the stresses and how people unraveled under pressure and could establish Ivy’s airway if his procedure overwhelmed him.

Due to Ivy’s acceptable oxygen levels, until they saw the grape, the EMTs doubted she choked. Ivy objected to the IV port, but Stella and Beth made her hold still. Stella and she played clapping games and nursery rhymes.

The Overflower avoided answering questions about his symptoms, both to save his breath and because his symptoms would pass when Ivy could breathe independently. He longed to drain the oxygen cylinder but rationed it.

Because of the grape’s position, the Overflower thought the EMTs would resort to an invasive, short-term emergency airway puncture. He worried Ivy was too young and her throat too small but expected that some EMTs and doctors would risk it. His powers also had a time limit, possibly matching the emergency airway puncture’s and probably below it. Don’t think about that, he thought. Figure out the length as you go. For short periods, he definitely could give Ivy more oxygen than an emergency airway puncture; for however long Ivy’s emergency lasted, he wanted to. Even if he stopped before the doctor removed the grape, the Overflower would have stalled Ivy’s oxygen deprivation. He kept his opinion to himself; he simply told the EMTs the maximum oxygen he could provide at once and an estimated sustainable rate and let them compare it to their treatments. The EMTs knew more.

The EMTs noticed that the Overflower fulfilled the function of a ventilator, and they said that an emergency airway puncture was a last resort when other airways and ventilators were impossible. The Overflower offered to breathe for Ivy as long as necessary. Beth expected the airway to unnecessarily distress Ivy, who semi-cooperatively endured the Overflower, and she thought he was less invasive.

The walls and floor swayed, and the Overflower lost track of his second hand. He counted in his head. Initially, the Overflower thought the nursery rhymes would be worse than wiggling. Instead, Ivy stopped wiggling, and he predicted her movements. Counting breaths along to the music confused him. Stop experimenting, he thought. Just be slow and steady.

Privately, Beth also considered Stella’s feelings and reactions to Ivy’s treatments. Stella thought she caused Ivy to choke; Beth told Stella that it was not her fault, and Ivy could have choked with her parents instead. Coping with Ivy’s intensive medical care daunted Beth. Until Beth reached the hospital, Stella insisted on caring for Ivy as a mother would, rather than abandoning her. She considered Ivy’s well-being her responsibility, but breakdowns crept up on Stella.

If the Overflower’s air failed or the emergency room doctors deemed conventional treatment necessary, Beth approved it.

The Overflower’s head twinged. The ache would begin in the head, then travel down the spine and possibly to his solar plexus, where it could change from an ache into other unpleasant symptoms. Carbon dioxide caused headaches, though. Remember you’ve absorbed more carbon dioxide before, he thought.

Ivy developed a suspicious expression and clutched her blanket and kangaroo.

The Overflower reminded himself to keep pressure off Ivy—it would be uncomfortable for her and she would hate it, and she would probably retaliate.

The Overflower and the EMTs, Tasha and Malik, thought through possibilities, which the EMTs would chose between. They planned the various transfers from store to ambulance to hospital with as few difference between the plans as possible.

Stella stuffed various things in the Overflower’s backpack, put it on, and stuck his ID and wallet in his pocket. She grabbed her purse, then eased Ivy’s blanket and the kangaroo out of the EMT’s way.

Next to Ivy, the EMTs lowered the stretcher to the floor. They, Stella, and Karen lifted her up and scooted the stretcher closer. Stella returned her blanket and kangaroo, which Ivy clung to. The stretcher bar dug into his side, but the mattress cushioned his elbow.

“Ivy, I’m going to let go for a minute, but I’m giving you an extra burst of oxygen. I’ll be right back,” the Overflower said.

Ivy nodded hesitantly.

“You’ll be okay,” the Overflower said. “It’s just like holding your breath. One, two, three.”

The Overflower transferred an extra burst of oxygen to Ivy. As he went from the floor to the stretcher, his vision blurred.

“It’s okay, Ivy. I think that’s the face he gets when he gives people air,” Stella said.

He felt like falling, so grabbed at the stretcher with his carbon dioxide arm. An EMT propped him up.

“Where is she?” the Overflower asked.

“Right here.” Mailk positioned his forearm.

Ivy shrunk away, and the Overflower’s hand slipped off her head.

“Come back, Ivy,” the Overflower said.

“Ivy, he needs to give you air!” Stella said.

Ivy looked at the Overflower with an I have to put up with you, but I don’t like you expression.

The Overflower sent another oxygen burst and settled cross-legged behind Ivy and the kangaroo. Stella and the kangaroo followed the EMTs. They warned the Overflower about the doorways, worried he would lose his balance.

Tensed, Ivy held extremely still, which worried the Overflower.

“You’re okay, Ivy.” He began exchanging the gasses again. “You’re being really good.”

In the ambulance, the Overflower gave Ivy extra oxygen again. He used slightly more pressure as Tasha helped Ivy scoot towards the head of the bed. Malik assisted the Overflower’s clamber from the stretcher to the airway chair, which involved standing.

A wave of dizziness hit the Overflower, and he backed out.

“There you go,” Malik said. “Deep breaths.”

Somehow, Malik had deposited him in the chair. The Overflower breathed oxygen once for himself but was patting for Ivy’s head and neck. Malik stopped rationing oxygen.

“Are you okay to give her more oxygen?”

He began transferring pure oxygen. Stella stood at an awkward angle because Ivy had wrapped her arms and legs around her neck like a monkey. Her coaxing sounded more like panic, and Tasha calmed them.

She doesn’t have enough oxygen, he thought. It’s not working. It has to be working. I’m doing it right. It just took a second.

“Are you okay to give her more oxygen?” Malik asked.

“I already am! How is she?”

“Her oxygen levels are fine.”

Stella held Ivy on one hip and convinced Ivy to hold Tasha’s hand. Tasha pulled her arm back just enough for the Overflower to reach her left lung.

“It’ll be okay, Ivy,” he said. “You’re being a big girl.”

“How long didn’t she have oxygen?” he asked, as Malik placed one of his hands on Ivy’s head and one hand on her chest.

“Less than a minute, well within the time.”

The Overflower reminded himself which arm transferred air, and which arm transferred carbon dioxide, and to direct the oxygen-nitrogen mix at Ivy and the carbon dioxide at him.

“You can turn it down now.”

“If you say so.” Malik adjusted the cylinder.

About a minute later, Ivy relaxed enough to lie down, and the Overflower adjusted his carbon dioxide arm. He moved his hand under Ivy’s skull; the weight assured him he would not lose his grip.

Ivy buckled in the kangaroo.

During the ride, the Overflower’s head ached dully, and he resisted the urge to fidget. He sweated as if he jumped a lake. His arms shook from the effort of holding them up. The uneven sirens distracted him from Malik’s counting. Occasionally, Ivy shifted, but she did not wiggle or participate in the nursery songs Beth sang.

Stella rummaged through his backpack, searching for anything potentially helpful, and found nothing.

The Overflower did not feel like dying, but he needed to breathe. He forced the oxygen and nitrogen into Ivy and tried to ignore that carbon dioxide was toxic.

The Overflower fidgeted. The ambulance’s interior revolved, so he lay his head on the stretcher, despite squishing his lungs and diaphragm. He involuntarily lowered Ivy’s oxygen level.

“Need something?” Malik asked, and at the same time, Stella said,

“There’s something wrong with him.”

Simultaneously, Stella’s mother stuttered The Wheels on the Bus; Malik unbuckled his seat belt and said, “Overflower”; the Overflower paid no attention to the pronunciation; Ivy gripped his loose fists; the Overflower wheezed, “Did you take it from her? No, it’s still going the right way”; “He probably has more than one face for giving people air, Ivy,” Stella said.

“I’m turning up the oxygen. We’ll be at the hospital in about two minutes. Is it time for the emergency airway puncture?”

“No,” the Overflower wheezed.

Sometimes, people overexerted their powers and died or disabled themselves from the strain. Don’t think about that, he thought. They did more than this, anyway.

Malik matched the Overflower’s unsteady breathing with the bag valve mask. He shushed the Overflower’s attempt to comfort Ivy. “Save your breath. Breathe with your belly like you said you were supposed to.”

Ivy lay so still, the Overflower worried she died, but if she had, the EMTs would have performed CPR. He felt confused, but not enough to overlook CPR. Just in case, he asked, “Is she alive?”

“Ivy is stable. She’s alive and fine,” Malik said, gently. “You’re taking care of her. Don’t worry. It’s best not to ask questions like that, though. I’ll tell you if there’s a problem. Relax.”

If the Overflower acknowledged that Ivy would survive if he stopped providing oxygen for her, he would stop immediately.

“Look, Ivy’s oxygenation is a lot better than yours. You could probably back off a little.”

“No,” the Overflower wheezed, scared Ivy might feel like him. Then he realized she had several times already, and he could not make her experience it again. “She will during the transfer.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll do what we planned,” Malik said.

The lack of sirens and motion confused him. The EMT reviewed the plan and another commandeered two orderlies.

The Overflower lost consciousness en route from the airway chair to the stretcher and from the ambulance to the ER stretcher. Every time, he revived in a panic for Ivy’s health. He asked which arm which gas came from, where Ivy was, and how long he starved her of oxygen. He always gave Ivy time to recuperate and brace herself between transfers. Distantly, the Overflower heard people complimenting Ivy’s bravery and cooperation. Later, Stella said that except for the transfers, Ivy seemed to cope with the experience.

Stella photographed the Overflower as proof he was too weak to help Ivy.

Controlling three gasses at once seemed impossible, but the Overflower continued oxygen, constantly. He automatically sucked in the Emergency Room’s oxygen. Ivy, growing less pale, clutched his limp hands, which confused him because a nurse also held them.

“How is she?” the Overflower whispered one word per breath.

“Ivy is stable,” a doctor said.

Over the doctor’s examination, Stella and the Overflower talked.

“Right arm oxygen-nitrogen? Where is she?”

“You’ve got her.”

“Right arm oxygen-nitrogen?”

“Yeah.” Stella patted his left arm. “This one says oxygen-nitrogen.”

“Right arm carbon dioxide?”

“Yeah, this one says carbon dioxide.” She patted him again. “You and Stella are in the ER.”

“Where's Ivy?”

Stella turned his head the opposite direction. Pale Ivy huddled on the stretcher next to him. Her nails dug into his hand, and she wore a hospital gown.

“How long?”

“About a minute, like going through really long tunnels.”

Ivy nodded.

“EMTs?”

“They left. Take it easy. Sorry, Ivy won’t let go of you.”

“It’s okay,” he said.

“He wasn’t going to shut up until he got the answers,” Stella said.

“Bubbles!”

“He wants you to know about the air bubbles.”

“Malik and Tasha told me about the air bubbles and everything you worried about.”

With supervision, the Overflower lessened the gas exchange—Ivy received less than ideal amounts of oxygen, but the Overflower’s oxygenation levels rose to a tolerable level—and increased his oxygen supply.

The Overflower answered as briefly as possible, spending most of his energy on Ivy. The doctor encouraged him to quit because Ivy had an alternative, an emergency airway puncture. Worried the uncertainty would scare Ivy, the Overflower said, “No. I’m not deciding that. Ask her parents. They decide. I’m not quitting until they tell me to.”

Along with oxygen deprivation, the doctor worried about oxygen toxicity in his right hand and carbon dioxide in his left hand.

“And your left side shows more discoloration than your right side,” the doctor said.

The Overflower diverted oxygen to the left half of his body and narrowed it into his arm.

People healed well from the effects their own powers had on them. Deep down, the Overflower understood it, and remembered he had experienced it.

The desperate need to breathe alone dulled somewhat, and the doctor told the nurse to adjust the flow when the Overflower requested. From sweating, the doctor thought he might be dehydrated. He refused an IV; the fluids in his bloodstream might confuse him.

He interrupted the doctor. “Ivy, am I squishing you?” he asked.

She shook her head and yanked his arms closer.

“Oh, Ivy, he won’t have to go to a new bed again.”

“No, I’ll stay with you,” he said.

Ivy nodded.

The oxygen gave the Overflower energy to increased his body’s capacity to absorb oxygen, and he emptied the cylinder.

“I’m giving oxygen-nitrogen and removing carbon dioxide,” he said.

“You really need to talk to the doctor about that.” The nurse dashed.

“Does that feel better?” the Overflower asked Ivy.

She nodded, visibly relieved.

“You weren’t feeling well, were you?” the Overflower said.

“You kept her levels above 80% except during transfers,” Stella said.

“And most of the time, she was over 88%. So, the doctors think you’re in more danger than she is.”

Both doctors rushed in; the Overflower forgot their names. The hullabaloo upset Ivy, which distracted Beth and Jerry, her father and Stella’s step-father. Stella watched everything.

The Overflower’s doctor seemed a bit annoyed about the situation, but he gave up arguing with him, possibly because it was a one-sided argument. Few things could make the Overflower stop.

“How?”

“They haven’t explained it to her yet. Mom wants to talk to you about it. She’s really worried about asking you to do more, but she will if it’s best for Ivy. She’s a good mom. If you say no, she won’t argue with you, I guess. It sounds like what she would do. I’ll get her. Mom, Dad, the Overflour is okay to talk now.”

The Babbits called the Overflower Overflour, but the Overflower hardly cared about their mispronunciation. He concentrated on breathing, draining the cylinder. Stella counted his breaths and Ivy held up erratically correct fingers.

Although the Babbits thought of Ivy’s health first, the Overflower’s concerned them; Stella texted Jerry Babbit clandestine updates. He omitted his symptoms, like the ache spreading down his spine, and the exhaustion from breathing and listening, let alone interacting with people.

Betha and Jerry had several reasons to ask the Overflower to continue breathing for Ivy, but the Overflower said, “I know you have good reasons. I don’t need to know them.”

“Mom, he means don’t explain them. Right?” Stella asked.

“Yeah,” the Overflower said, which surprised the Babbits. “It takes a long time. The goal is getting the grape out of Ivy’s trachea. Parents decide how. Just get it over with.”

“We didn’t know superpowers had this effect on people,” Beth said.

The Overflower reassured the Babbits that he would breathe for Ivy until the bronchoscopy removed the grape. “Just get it over with.”

“You might be harming yourself needlessly,” Jerry said.

“No, I’ll be fine when it stops. Just hurry.”

The delays exasperated him for his own comfort and, more importantly, because he thought Ivy suffered more than him.

Dr. Fawcett explained the procedure to Ivy, while nurses rolled the Overflower into the recovery position and he rested. To his relief, the doctors believed in maintaining a similar plan for each transfer, despite the chaotic entrance to the ER; the EMTs must have explained it already.

Scowling, and listening to the doctor, Ivy tried to climb onto Beth and pull the Overflower with her. Beth climbed onto the bed.

The doctor left and they waited for the nurses. The Overflower longed to yell at somebody to hurry up for Ivy’s sake, but he was not a yeller and felt too breathless. Should I dissolve the grape? Don’t change the plan. And the doctors will just delay it again.

“Ivy, sweetie, he’s going with you.”

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” the Overflower gasped in a whisper. “Even when you’re asleep. I’ll stay with you until you come back to Mommy and Daddy and Stella.”

“Ivy knows you’re sick too, even if she can’t explain it yet,” Beth said. “I’m sure she appreciates your help and feels sorry for you.”

“I’m okay, Ivy, and the doctor is going to help you.”

“You’ll be okay with him. And when you wake up, you’ll feel better.”

Beth followed the bed. When the doors closed, Ivy looked like she would have whimpered if she could. Her fingernails marked his hands and scooted closer. Everybody failed to comfort her, but the Overflower said, “You’re being very brave. I’m sorry it’s taking so long to get the grape out.”

The nurses rolled the bed within arm’s reach of the operating table. Ivy whimpered soundlessly during the transfer.

Under anesthesia, Ivy’s hands went limp, which scared the Overflower. Remember she’s not dead, he thought.

The nurse anesthetist monitored his labored breathing suspiciously. He struggled to breathe for Ivy, and he tried to ignore everything except breathing.

“We got the grape out,” Dr. Fawcett said. “You can stop now.”

’What?” the Overflower wheezed.

“You can stop,” the nurse said.

The Overflower thought Ivy’s chest rose and fell, but the general consensus was that she breathed unreliably.

“Is she breathing?” he asked.

“She’s trying to,” the doctor said. “We removed the grape.”

A nurse tried to move his hand, but, from somewhere, he found the energy to fight back.

“Is she breathing?” he asked.

“There she goes. Yeah, she’s fine. Relax. We’re going to separate you now.”

“No,” the Overflower said.

The nurses pried him away, and the anesthesiology nurse pointed to Ivy’s vital signs. The Overflower stopped the transfer and slumped on the bed, completely out of energy. Breathing in twice an average person’s oxygen consumption revived him enough to say, “No, she’s scared to be alone.”

“We’re just putting her on a separate bed,” a nurse said.

“Good,” he said.

The Overflower wondered if Ivy stirred.

“No, I said I’d be with her when she woke up!” The Overflower attempted to sit up. “She’s scared!”

“We’ll ask her parents if you can be in a recovery room.”

I was with her when she woke up, he thought. Everybody let Ivy believe he accompanied her into the recovery room.

The idea that a person was more physically capable of things they mentally thought possible occasionally killed and disabled people with superpowers. The Overflower considered himself far below their abilities, and decided he did not want to reach their levels.

The Babbits allowed the Overflower into the recovery room, but sitting exhausted him.

Stella brought his backpack to him. “Mom and Dad want to say thanks.”

“They don’t have to.”

“Ivy doesn’t need help, but she’s still scared. She’s clingy and says she can’t breathe.”

“Can she?”

“She can breathe. She’s too little to understand, and she’d probably feel better if she said bye.”

The doctor tolerated the wheelchair because he acknowledged it was against medical advisement, he breathed normal air again, and the Overflower understood his powers.

“The first thing she said was, ‘I’m never ating grapes again!’” Stella said.

“That was the first thing we understood, anyway.”

“Is she breathing?”

“Oh yeah. You’re still wheezing and gasping.”

“It’ll go away in a few hours. Thanks for getting my backpack.”

“No problem. I put your ID in your wallet in a pocket, too.” Stella burst out, “I thought Ivy was going to watch you die! She couldn’t see that.”

“I’d be completely unable to use my powers, but I’d be alive,” he said. “I’d look more normal in a few minutes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Sorry for scaring you. How are you now?”

“I already had a meltdown while were waiting. I’m fine for now, but I’ll have another one sometime.”

“You plan them?”

“No, I just know how I feel.”

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you,” the Overflower said.

“You kept my sister alive! That’s as helpful as you could be! But it was my fault, and she’s lucky,” Stella said.

“No, it isn’t your fault. A lot of kids choke.”

“That’s what Mom says, but she’s my responsibility. I’ve cut up literally thousands of grapes for her! But we’re trying to distract her from that.

The Overflower handed her a manilla envelope from his backpack. “Your parents might want the forms for financial assistance after a superpower rescue.”

“Thanks. We have enough money most of the time. But our cat needed surgery. My car broke down during the move, so I had to pay the tow truck, spend two nights in a motel, and get food. And moving is expensive.”

As soon as Ivy saw the Overflower, she ran to him, grabbed his hand, and said, “Offerfoer! Come here and breathe with me!” She pronounced it, Offer-foe-ur.

Of course, the others interrupted to thank him, which he felt awkward about.

“Why do you want me to breathe with you?” the Overflower asked. “You look fine now.”

“’Cause I couldn’t breathe.”

“She has to get her confidence back,” Jerry said.

“I’ll look at your blood vessels and see if you have enough oxygen. I’ll check for bubbles, too.” He gently touched her neck’s blood vessels.

“She’s going to have a scan in a minute,” Beth said. “You don’t have to. Don’t ask him, Ivy, he’s tired.”

“It’s okay,” he said, but it required quite a bit of effort. Guiltily, the Overflower removed a few small air bubbles, and he forced himself to sit upright.

“Do you hurt anywhere?” he asked.

“This.”

“I can’t do anything about the IV.”

She jabbered.

“It’s the irritation from the bronchoscopy,” Beth said.

“I can’t do anything about that, either. I think you’re breathing okay, and I took the bubbles out. Did they hurt?”

“Nope!”

“Good. You’re feeling better.”

“He’s tired. Just say thanks and let him go,” Beth said.

Ivy whined and held his hand, and, of course, leaving her felt more complicated than if he rescued a kitten from a tree and it fell asleep on him. There was no opportunity to fade quietly into the background.

The Overflower stayed for a couple hours, although half an hour after entering the room, Ivy demonstrated hopping on one foot. She and the Overflower watched My Little Pony, and she taught him nursery rhyme games. Dr. Fawcett declared her healthy.

The Overflower hired a ride home.

The Babbits picked up their groceries and thank Hank for holding them. Ivy’s recovery and signing a waiver liability agreement relieved Hank.