Mom pulls into our driveway, and I can feel her entire body tensing as she shifts into park. She doesn't turn off the engine right away, just sits there gripping the steering wheel like it might float away if she lets go.

  Through our front window, I can see him. A short, but long sort of guy with ear-length gray hair sitting in Dad's armchair. Sort of like you took a dwarf from one of Akilah's fantasy novels and stretched it. Brown, frumpy sweater, grey slacks, a bushy mustache, and an overcoat so big it's almost comical. Dad is visible in the kitchen doorway at the back of the house, leaning on his cane, watching the man like he might suddenly explode.

  "That's him?" I ask, though it's obviously him. Who else would it be?

  Mom nods, not looking at me. "Victor," she says, the name coming out like something bitter she's trying not to taste.

  "He looks... normal." I'm not sure what I expected. Horns? A cape? The guy looks like he could be selling fishing tackle at Bass Pro Shop.

  Mom makes a choked sort of noise. "Yeah."

  I study him through the window. If this guy is my grandfather, I'm not seeing much family resemblance. His face is narrow where mine is round. His hair is straight where mine is wavy.

  "We should go in," I say after a full minute of Mom just staring at the house. "Dad's waiting."

  Mom finally turns off the engine. "Sam, remember what you promised. If I say we leave--"

  "We leave. I got it." I open my door before she can draw this out any longer.

  The walk to our front door feels ten times longer than usual. I'm hyper-aware of everything - the weight of my backpack, the evening air cooling my skin, the sound of Mom's heels on the concrete behind me. I reach for the doorknob but Mom rushes forward, suddenly needing to go first. I let her.

  The door opens and we step into our living room. Victor doesn't stand up. He doesn't even turn his head right away, just finishes watching whatever was on TV and then looks over. His eyes are gray-blue, deep-set under heavy brows. They move from Mom to me, lingering on my face like he's memorizing it.

  "Rachel," he says with a nod. His voice is deep and flat, no emotion I can detect.

  "Victor," Mom replies, her own voice tight. She's standing so stiffly I'm worried she might snap in half.

  Dad moves forward from the kitchen, coming to stand beside Mom. "Sam, you want to go upstairs while we--"

  "I wanted to see my granddaughter," Victor interrupts, his eyes still on me. Not aggressive, just matter-of-fact. "That's why I'm here."

  "You don't have a granddaughter," Mom says, and now there's definitely emotion in her voice - a sharp edge that could cut glass.

  Victor ignores this, still looking at me. "Samantha." It's not quite a question, but I nod anyway.

  "Sam," I correct him automatically. "Nobody calls me Samantha except when I'm in trouble."

  One corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Victor," he says, pointing to himself like I might not have figured that out. "No one calls me anything else."

  Mom's hand finds my shoulder, squeezing too tight. "Sam, go upstairs."

  "That would defeat the purpose of my visit," Victor says, still in that same flat tone. It's like he's reading from a script, but one without any emotion written into it.

  "I don't care about the purpose of your visit," Mom snaps.

  Dad steps forward, one hand on his cane, the other reaching toward Mom. "Rachel, let's all just take a breath. Victor's been... civil." The pause before "civil" speaks volumes. "He's agreed to leave whenever we ask."

  I shrug off Mom's hand. "I want to stay," I tell her. I'm not missing this chance to meet the family boogeyman.

  Victor watches this exchange with the detached interest of someone observing animals at a zoo. When Mom reluctantly drops her hand from my shoulder, he gives another of those almost-imperceptible nods.

  "Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch. "Please,"

  I hear my Mom scoff. "Since when do you say please?" She asks, voice hushed.

  "Three years ago. I had just gotten out of a discussion with some police officers about a fight I was in. They had informed me that manipulating people with what they expect to hear will get me into fewer fights overall. I found their explanation... what's the word," he chews for a couple of moments, like a cow. "Persuative."

  I sit on the edge of the couch, right across from him. Mom immediately sits beside me, pressed so close I can feel her trembling. Dad takes the armchair at the end of the couch, angled so he can see both Victor and us. "Saying please isn't manipulation. That's just being polite," I point out.

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  "Being polite is manipulation," Victor responds succinctly.

  For a long moment, nobody speaks. The TV is still on, the volume turned low - some game show where contestants are trying to price kitchen appliances. I recognize the host but I can't for the life of me tell from where.

  "You're the one from the news," Victor finally says, his eyes still studying my face. "With the mother who testified. That was Rachel."

  I blink, surprised. "You know about that?"

  "I listen to the news," he says, as if that explains everything.

  Mom shifts beside me. "The legislation failed," she says, a hint of defiant pride breaking through her fear. "Children with powers won't be criminalized."

  Victor's expression doesn't change. "I don't care. Good for you. Good job," he says, without a hint of sarcasm, and her entire body deflates like a punctured balloon. He turns back to me. "You heal fast, I heard."

  "Yeah," I admit, not elaborating further. No need to give him my whole power set.

  He nods like this makes perfect sense to him. "Useful."

  Mom shifts beside me. "We're not here to discuss Sam's powers."

  Victor's eyes flick to her, then back to me. "What do you want to discuss?"

  "How about why you're suddenly showing up after sixteen years?" Mom's voice has that dangerous edge again.

  "Curiosity," Victor replies simply. "I've never met her. Wanted to see what she's like."

  "And now you have," Mom says. "So you can leave."

  Victor ignores this, still looking at me. "You in school?" he asks.

  "Junior year at Tacony Charter," I reply, feeling like I'm in some bizarre job interview.

  "Good student?"

  I shrug. "Decent. Not great at math."

  He nods like I've confirmed something important. "Camilla was terrible at math. Could barely balance a checkbook." I feel Mom tense beside me. No, worse - I see her flinch, out of the corner of my eye, and then move.

  "Okay, that's enough," she says, starting to stand.

  "What do you do?" I ask quickly, before Mom can end this. "For work, I mean."

  "Long-haul trucker," Victor replies. "Thirty-nine years now."

  "That's your truck outside?"

  He nods. "Peterbilt 379. Bought it off the company ten years ago."

  "You live in the truck?"

  "Most of the time. Got a P.O. box in Roanoke. I don't get mail."

  I'm trying to picture it - this severe, angular man living in a truck cab, driving cross-country by himself. "Do you like it? Trucking?"

  Something shifts in his expression - not quite a smile, but a slight easing of the hard lines around his mouth. "It suits me. I go where I'm told, I deliver what needs delivering, I don't have to talk to many people." He looks at Mom for a moment. Her breathing changes, becomes more controlled, like she's counting each inhale and exhale.

  "You could have called first," Dad says, breaking his silence. "Given us some warning."

  Victor turns to him, expression unchanged. "Would you have let me in?"

  Dad doesn't answer, which is answer enough.

  "Let me see your hand," Victor says suddenly, turning back to me.

  "What?"

  "Your hand." He holds out his own - large, calloused, with prominent veins running across the back.

  Mom shifts beside me again. "Sam, you don't have to--"

  "It's fine," I say, extending my right hand toward him. "I'm not afraid of him."

  "Good," he replies. He takes it, not in a handshake but turning it palm up, examining it like he's reading my fortune. His touch is neither gentle nor rough, just clinical. His fingertips trace the scars across my palm like he's reading a book in braille.

  "These are unusual," he says. I can't tell if he's impressed or just making an observation.

  "I heal fast, but I still scar sometimes," I explain vaguely.

  He nods, still examining my hand. He flips my hand over, looking at my knuckles, which have their own collection of scars, particularly in the spaces between my fingers, where the teeth come out. "You fight regularly," he says. Not a question.

  "When I need to."

  He finally looks up from my hand to my face. "You hesitate before hitting someone?"

  The question catches me off guard. "What?"

  "When you're about to hit someone. Do you hesitate?"

  I'm not sure how to answer this. It feels like a trap somehow. "Depends on the situation."

  His grip on my hand loosens. "Like what? Most people have to overcome their inhibitions to fight," Victor says. "Do you?"

  I pull my hand back, uncomfortable. I feel like he's looking through me, like a pane of glass. "I only fight bad guys," I try to get around the question.

  "Bad guys," he repeats back to me, mildly nonplussed. The change of direction doesn't seem to bother him. "And how do you know they're bad?"

  "They're hurting innocent people," I say, an edge creeping into my voice. "Or trying to."

  "So hurting people is what makes someone bad." It's not quite a question.

  "Hurting innocent people," I correct him. "There's a difference."

  Victor nods, like I've passed some test. Then he holds out his hand again, this time clearly for a handshake. "Properly, this time," he says. "Please."

  I glance at Mom, who looks like she might burst a blood vessel, then back at Victor. I take his hand and squeeze, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to show I'm not intimidated.

  His eyebrows rise slightly. "Strong grip," he says, squeezing back.

  I squeeze a little harder, and feel his knuckles pop. For a second, I'm worried that I just broke his old man hands, but then he just starts laughing. Not much. Just a little chuckle. It's a short, rusty sound, sort of like opening a tin can. He pulls his hand away, flexing his fingers experimentally.

  I glance at Mom, who looks stunned. Her eyes are wide, fixed on Victor's face like she's seeing something impossible. My eyes flick to Dad, and then to the pistol lying in plain sight on the kitchen table - the far end of it, closer to the kitchen. The magazine sitting next to it. Dad looks back at me. There's a sort of tense exhaustedness in his eyes, like a deer that's been chased too long.

  "Favorite animal," Victor says-asks.

  "What?" I sort of dribble out.

  "What's your favorite animal? Do you like cats?" He asks, this time sounding more like a question.

  I sort of think about it for a second too long. Mom squeezes the fabric of my shirt between her knuckles. "They're alright. I mean, I'm... I'm fine with cats?"

  "I have two. Box and Coal," he says, as if their names explain everything. Is this how he tries to have a conversation? "They travel with me." He pauses, something calculating entering his expression. "Been trying to figure out what happens to them when I'm gone. Got a few grandkids scattered around. Never met most of them."

  Mom stiffens beside me. "If you're here about a will--"

  "Not asking for anything," Victor cuts her off. "Just planning ahead. Seventy-two ain't young anymore."

  Dad clears his throat. "We're not interested in any inheritance, Victor."

  Victor looks at him directly for the first time. "Didn't think you would be." His eyes slide back to me. "Just getting all the information before deciding."

  "Shouldn't you be retired?" I ask, before someone else can.

  Victor's face sort of wrinkles up. "I could. But then I'd have to stop trucking. It's probably better for everyone else that I don't."