"So you inherited all the skills, Eugene?" the man asked.

"I don't know. I can just talk to spirits," Eugene said with a slight shrug to his shoulders.

"But what can your brother do?"

Eugene hesitated.

"Where is your twin, anyway?" the man continued.

"He's home sick."

"He's sickly, your brother?"

"I wouldn't put a label like that on him," Eugene said.

Oliver flinched his fingers away from the book he had been about to pick up. Did everything he touched have to pull him into a memory? It wasn't even Eugene's book—it was his!

He rubbed his temple as the memory replayed and clarified in his head. The location looked like one of the offices of the SPR. The man wasn't familiar—which was a blessing. Oliver didn't need to know his immediate co-workers were talking behind his back.

Though they were, he was sure it of it.

Talking about the boy who had wormed his way into Sir Dorey's good graces and clearly found something more interesting to occupy his time with. Why else would he just up and disappear like that?

He grabbed the book—Eugene shouldn't take his things if he wasn't going to give them back in a timely manner—and stalked back to his room, falling onto the bed. The short walk had worn him out. Again.

He used to be able to decide if he wanted to view a memory. Only the strongest ones would just pull him under without warning. Memories that held real pain, not simple day-to-day occurrences.

Oliver had spoken to Sir Dorey on the phone a few times. Sir Dorey told him to take his time. Heal whatever it was ailing him.

Yes, that was a good question. Oliver was becoming overly familiar with the hospital, and the doctors didn't seem to know what to look for. Martin was looking into different angles at this point. Maybe it was something in their own field they were overlooking? Did it have to do with Oliver's PK? His psychometry? What specialists could they bring in?

Eugene had kindly suggested finding an exorcist.

The phone next to his bed rang. Martin had installed one in his room when Oliver's health had deteriorated so he could still stay in contact with not just Sir Dorey, but his teachers at school as he attempted to maintain the lesson plans. Schoolwork was the least of his worries—it even distracted him when he was trapped on the bed.

Oliver sat up with a small sigh and picked up the phone.

"Oliver Davis speaking."

The voice on the other side was professional. Official. They had gotten his name from the SPR, that he occasionally does psychometric readings? It was an emergency. A missing child. It was a special request by the guardians if some personal items could be read? They were afraid they were running out of time.

Oliver paused. He couldn't. Martin had suggested not doing anything with his abilities until they started researching if they were linked to his bouts of weakness.

A voice rose to the back of his mind, an encounter with another psychic he had forgotten.

"You will know when to use your gift to help them, no matter the cost to yourself, because that is who you are."

Martin wasn't home.

"Yes," Oliver said into the phone. "If you can do a house call."

Oliver managed to take a shower and drag a comb through his hair. He riffled through Eugene's clothes, finding something presentable and relatively memory-free.

He walked slowly down the stairs, fingers clenching the handrail.

Luella jumped out of her skin when he showed up in the kitchen's door frame. She chided him that all he needed to do was call if he needed something.

He sat down at the kitchen table. He felt a little stronger. Maybe it was the resolve with what he was planning on doing. Besides, this was the best research, right? Nothing would be found in books. He just needed to test it.

She listened closely and didn't take to his plans well.

The doorbell rang and with one last worried look at Oliver, Luella went to answer the door.

She returned with two policemen and an elderly couple. They sat down at the table, tense pleasantries exchanged. Oliver could feel they were a little concerned that he was just a boy. He looked barely older than the child they were looking for.

The guardians were the child's grandparents. Oliver told them he didn't need to know more. It was best to not be clouded by information.

They set out simple items: a worn stuffed bear with a missing eye. A pair of small knit gloves that looked handmade. A delicate silver locket.

One policeman watched. The other judged.

Oliver ran his fingers over the items. What he had considered a curse earlier was becoming useful, which normal memories of the child flooded his mind.

A little girl, about seven, set down her bear on the bed, and placed the locket around its neck. She pulled on her gloves, whispering to the stuffed companion how he should look over her locket for the day. She was going out exploring, and didn 't want to lose it. It had pictures of her mother in it, after all. It was too precious to get wet in the gully. Then she paused. These gloves were made by her grandmother, she couldn't get them dirty either. She pulled them off and set them by the bear.

Oliver's breath hitched.

No, he needed more.

The gully was so much deeper than she expected. The rains had made it slippery, and she lost her footing, all the way to the bottom. Her ankle hurt. She was so far away. She had walked for so long! Someone was on the top of the ridge, but she couldn 't call out—what if they were bad people? She couldn't talk to strangers.

Oliver saw her location as it truly was, not as her imagination did—she hadn't gone very far at all. That was her house on the hill.

Oliver looked up at the policeman who was judging him, and knew that this was being assumed as a kidnapping by the girl's estranged father—the police had not even examined the gully besides a quick up and down on the banks. And the grandparents had trusted the police, since they could not scale the gully themselves.

As Oliver watched the policeman's face get tighter, he realized he had been speaking out loud, like some trance medium. He hadn't intended to lose control like that.

The grandfather begged Luella to use her phone—as if she would refuse—and the moment he had someone on the line started giving directions to sweep the gully. The grandmother took Oliver's hand and thanked him profusely. He could feel her gratitude sinking into his skin. He needed the warmth. He felt cold.

Oliver stayed at the kitchen table after visitors left. Luella had wrapped a blanket around him and he had his hands wrapped around a too-hot teacup. She was now pretending to wash dishes.

When the phone rang, she dove for it. Oliver stood up, and she handed him the receiver which was dripping with dishwater.

It was the policeman who had been watching with interest. They had found the girl. She had a sprained ankle, and was dehydrated and hungry. But okay. She would be okay. Thank you. He had just known Oliver was one of the real ones.

Oliver handed Luella back the phone, and sat down at the table before he fell down. He didn't think he'd be able to make it up the stairs. But it had been the right thing to do.

And he was one of the few people who could do it.

...

(Thank you for reading! Need more? Be sure to check out my fic "Fix Me".)