Ice cream. Sal's idea of penance for upsetting Kyle while simultaneously acknowledging his progress, was a bowl of French vanilla set atop a chocolate-chip cookie, still steaming from the oven, all drizzled with Bavarian chocolate fudge sauce. Kyle didn't think he could salvage an appetite, but he surprised himself.

"It's an old trick, really. Overwhelm one sense with another. And your case," she paused, thoughtfully chewing a warm, gooey bite, "required drastic measures."

Kyle nodded, almost done but for a melted film clinging stubbornly to the bowl's sides. His spoon clinked and scraped until nothing was left, and he relaxed in his chair, too sated to think. Were he home, Kyle would nap to sleep away the sugar coma. It was almost enough to forget about the woman and her vase.

Time's up.

Sal stood alone at a previously unexplored corner of the room, obscuring a paper silhouette, reaching into a curio drawer. "Heads up, Kyle!" she hollered, swinging her arm around, holding the biggest gun Kyle had ever seen. "Magnum," she informed, pulling the trigger.

Kyle was too stunned to move when the loud report numbed his eardrums—as if the second of warning Sal provided was enough to escape. He flinched, instinctively falling away from the bullet and shielding his head with hastily upraised arms.

He didn't know what being shot felt like, but he was certain it wasn't pleasant. As the moments passed in silence and Kyle realized he wasn't in pain, his cautiously peered through a gap in his arms and faced a shard of deformed lead, hanging in midair mere inches from his nose. Kyle was almost relieved, until he realized he'd pissed his pants.

"What... what the hell!?" roared Kyle, rocketing to his feet, defiantly ignoring the darkness spreading across his jeans.

Sal winced. "Oohhh, this always happens." She lowered her gaze, guiltily searching out dust motes on the floor perhaps, before closing her eyes. "There. How do you feel now?"

"What do you mean, how do–" He stopped suddenly, patting his jeans in confusion. They were dry, and freshly laundered—cleaner than they'd been when he rescued them from the hamper. His jaw worked wordlessly.

"And I was hoping that would work, too," said Sal, muttering to herself. "Well, it's only fair. Here, Kyle."

She clicked the safety and tossed the gun to Kyle.

The weapon nearly struck him in the head—as if he'd notice—but his sense of self-preservation and quick, young reflexes, caught the gun in midair. What am I s'posed to do with this?

"Come on, Kyle. Shoot me. There are failsafes in here; I won't get hurt," assured the old woman. He had only to remember his earlier loss of dignity for confirmation. Was this another test?

"Are you sure?"

She nodded assent, crossing her arms and adopting a pose that screamed pure boredom.

Kyle grit his teeth and hauled the heavy heater to a firing stance, bracing himself against impending recoil an flipping off the safety. He pulled the trigger once. Sal stood unimpressed, looking behind herself as if searching for the bullet. Twice. Three times. Four. Each report sent a ripple of force arcing through his radius and ulna, slightly deadening his fingers.

She held up her hand and smiled—smiled—"That's quite enough, Kyle. Let's see how well you did."

She stepped left, turned right, and traced her right index finger along a paper cutout of herself, searching for holes. "Ah! Got one. Two! Three... oh, right in the throat. Not bad, Kyle."

This bitch is crazy. Or, she's one hell of a magician.

"Don't look so confused, Kyle. Don't you want to know how I did it?"

With no other recourse, he nodded. Why the hell not? You'll just tell me anyway.

"Well, it's just like the vase, really. Imagine a shell around yourself, like a tiny bubble with you inside. Concentrate on that aura of safety, and envision anything entering that zone, passing harmlessly out the other side." She tapped her foot. "I hoped you might reflexively protect yourself that way, but maybe I'm going too fast. It's much easier to start with something slow."

With that, she rummaged again through the curio and withdrew a large white ball dotted with oblong slots. "Take this Wiffle Ball, for instance. It's slow. Try to let it pass through you. Don't worry about the protective field stopping the ball; it's hardly lethal."

She lowered her arm and threw an easy, low momentum, underhand pitch right at Kyle's chest. The light plastic spun lazily in Kyle's vision, and it was obvious and easy to see. Simple to imagine entering a small radius around him, and falling out the other side. Like falling out of bed.

When the ball clattered to the ground and rolled two feet behind him, he hardly believed what happened. He turned back to Sal, searching for validation against his burgeoning insanity.

She nodded, smiling. "You did just fine."

Sal performed an about-face, proceeded to walk through the paper target, into the wall behind it, and vanished, leaving Kyle alone with his thoughts.

But it all made sense! Imagine the wall passing through you, just like the ball. What else could he do? Dared he imagine? A sliver of understanding also took root. If a nighmare struck at just the right moment, he might pass through his bed—or worse, considering the last lesson—imagine a bully suffering horribly, only for his harmless wishes to become reality.

Kyle, fully aware of his vivid imagination, shuddered involuntarily. How many would have died before I figured it out myself? And then: Dad! No doubt about it: to one extent or another, Fantastic Frank relied on more than luck for his success. How much had Kyle inherited, and how much was his own?