Half to Death by Robin Alexander

the tiny lines, the pale calluses and tried to imagine what they’d feel like under my fingertips. With that in mind, I touched her lightly. Images tried to come, but I mentally shoved them back. In my mind’s eye, I could see the image blurry like it was a video on pause. I stared hard at Miranda’s palm, focusing solely on what it felt like. Miranda’s feelings bubbled up in me like a spring. Those I could not stop. She was curious, hopeful, and somewhere far back worried about Deb.
    This time, I broke the connection and grinned. “I stopped it. I didn’t go into your mind. I could still feel your emotions, though.”
    Miranda jumped in her seat. “Could you feel my skin?”
    “Yes,” I said, matching her enthusiasm. “It was like I was forcing two sides of my brain to work in unison. I saw your hand, I felt it.”
    Miranda stroked the bridge of her nose twice as she looked at me. “You hated math and daydreamed in class all the time. Do you remember admitting that to me?”
    “Yeah, and I remember Mom going ballistic when I got a D my first semester in high school.”
    “Right. Then you forced yourself to pay attention. You had to train your brain to listen and focus. I think you’re gonna have to do the same with this.” She pounded her hands on the table. “You can do this. You just have to practice.”
    I clapped my hands together and stared at the ceiling. I was seeing light at the end of a dark tunnel I thought I’d never crawl out of.
    “Look at me,” Miranda said, drawing my attention. “You can harness this crazy thing. You can have it all, you just have to work really hard. Think of it as a tool you can use when you need to but put in a box when you don’t.”
    I liked that analogy.
    “We’ll practice together as much as you need.” She grinned. “I’m with you most of the time, anyway. I’m happy to be your guinea pig.”
    I looked at her, and the love in my heart overwhelmed me. She was more dedicated to me than my own brother whom I rarely saw on holidays and occasionally sent an e-mail or postcard. “I wish I could hug you.”
    Miranda looked surprised and pleased at my admission. “Do it. Try to focus on what you feel, but if you slip into my mind, I don’t care. I trust you, and there’s nothing I keep from you.”
    We stood and looked at each other awkwardly for a minute. We’d slept in the same bed, one showered while the other used the toilet, but when it came to showing affection, we stumbled. It was my fault, I knew that. Miranda had always been so open, but I was the one who held back. She understood it and never pushed, knowing that I loved her just the same.
    I took the step and watched as her arms opened. I felt them enclose me tightly and the press of her body to mine. Images came, and I pushed against them hard in my mind. She whispered, “I love you,” over and over, and I felt it, nothing but love in its purest, most innocent form.
    I lost myself in her embrace, and for a second, I forgot to fight. Images came before I could stop them. I knew it was the day we stopped being friends and became sisters. I felt the sun on my face—Miranda’s face—the roughness of the rope in my hands. I was balancing on a limb, my bare feet clutched to it like a bird. I felt the muscles in my stomach and arms tighten as I pushed off. The weightlessness was exciting and scary as I swung out high and free. Then I felt my grip slipping, the horror of letting go, and the pain when I crashed to the ground. My ankle was filled with waves of agony that would subside and come back stronger with each beat of my heart.
    I looked up through her eyes at myself. Concern and fear etched my childish face as I fought through the brambles.
    “I think I broke my foot,” Miranda was saying it, but I felt the effort it took to utter the words, the sob rising deep out of my chest.
    I watched the vision of myself kneel down and felt the touch of my own hand on Miranda’s knee. “It’s okay,