The view from here is incredible. It never ceases to amaze and kinda frustrate me. My giant window. Mine, I guess. I can see a large cross-section of the ocean. As the sun goes down, orange and yellow ripple and flare out, contrast between the blue and the oranges arrests me in place.

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       I can see the cline of the city from up on this hill too. By the shore, suggestions of modernist and otherwise huge houses dot around and peak out just barely out of the array of the city. There’s an immediate decline in size and shape as I trace the path of city development, seeing the zone of town houses and bungalows. Though the tallest buildings, the hotels, lone resort, and apartments are nearby, they creep in at the edge of the city. It’s hard to make out any of the businesses scattered out on the shore and up in the inner city, but they fill in through my mind’s eye anyway. At the top of the hill we all arrive again to the ostentatious architecture: some mcmansions and other bizarrely shaped dwellings, all much too large to claim to be shelter.

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       Now I’m living in one of those strange decadent houses that I loved as a child—shaped like a crescent, tiled in black, the loop of it facing down this hill that’s exclusively for the obscenely well-to-do. At least this absurdly huge window is pretty cool. I look out and see all that’s around me. It’s a good view. I feel weird about monopolizing it, but it’s a good view.

 

       The town used to have more of a character. A life of its own, I thought, like each building could hold the hopes and dreams of the people who use them. My thoughts wandered in this way as I ate a tossed ceaser salad. I fried the chicken but the rest was prepackaged. It’s kind of overkill to prepare all of the parts of a ceaser salad, it’ll taste about the same. That being said, I still went overkill and breaded the chicken, and it tastes really good. It was worth it.

 

       Dad liked it too when he came over not too long ago, I can’t help but remember. He was stoked by the house and all my stuff. Seemed like he was more stoked by all of that than the child he raised. We still live in the same town but lately it feels like our roles have been reversed, he feels evasive, and I hate not knowing what an awkward silence means.

 

       He loved the house though! Everyone seems too. I idly washed out my bowel as meeting my awful, creepy neighbors was unconsciously dredged up. I think one of them owns the resort and the other just has a summer home out here. I forgot what he did. They wanted me to go to a party, I politely declined. They’re both visibly, positively aged, so I can’t really imagine they had any good intentions.

 

       I kept my work phone with me simply because I had work. A wry smile crossed my face when I realized there wasn’t much of a difference between them anymore. It’s like I only attract people I have nothing in common with anymore. Pretty much over social media as well. It’s just harassment, bullshit, and noise. One thing I am relieved about is getting someone else to manage it.

 

       Have to get ready. I put on a stupid looking baseball cap—literally a baseball cap, it’s one of my Dad’s Dodger caps—baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants. This outfit has a sort of negative

nostalgia, this is the kind of stuff I wore in high school because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. It doesn’t feel good to be sort of forced to have to wear this when I go out, but I don’t want to be noticed. Lately I’ve been understanding why other working heroes have secret identities. I guess in a way this one is mine, it just can’t really be called an identity.

 

       I could cut off my thoughts now that I’m suited up. I knew exactly where to go. I walked fast, weaving through sidewalks and intersections, the cold night air loosening my chest. I waited in a seedy alley for my contact. Just had to buy the drugs and get friendly. The goal is to figure out who is supplying. I said this all again to psyche myself up one last time.

 

       A guy probably wearing a jersey peered over and peered out and around. He walked completely into my field of vision and, yeah, he was definitely wearing a jersey. As he walked completely under the streetlight, I froze with recognition, then looked away. Not really sure if it’s more suspicious to stare or to pretend I didn’t see him—I was already blowing it.

 

       That was Paul. I wasn’t sure but I was pretty sure. Did he recognize me? I could see his approach in my peripheral vision. What the fuck.

 

       I looked up to make sure but I didn’t realize how close he’d gotten. There was less than an instant to his reaction. He saw that I knew and I saw that he knew, he jolted slightly from shock, and pivoted instantly. Like hell he was sprinting it.

 

       Why couldn’t I make decisions that fast? I automatically ran after him. From my sinews I could feel the energy I stored pulsing, reacting, matching my rhythm. I drew some up from my center into my arm. I just needed to touch him to mess up the rhythms in his body and paralyze him. That’s the safest way to do this.

 

       But he was too goddamn fast. He could never beat me in a race when we were kids. Not the time to be thinking about that. If I fucked this up there would be no end to the wringing and whinging I’d get back at the precinct. They might even put me on probation. With things as they are between me and city hall...

 

       My arm glowed, sang, reverberated out with pure energy. The warmth stuck to the bone and swam in my limb and it didn’t feel like just mine anymore. It was incredibly bright but I’m sure he was too far to notice. He was a good twenty feet away from me at this point, almost across the road I was facing.

 

       Now, later, whenever I think about this moment—I really think I thought about letting him ago. I think that I thought about it. I think so. Didn’t I think so? Why didn’t I think about it, even once? It did show up faintly, it flashed in the back of my mind, right? As both the easiest thing to do and the right thing to do. Paul is a jerk but he helped me.

 

       Pure solar energy into kinetic force. A star athlete smashing a home run. A waterfall striking a dam’s wheel. A crash test demolishing part of a faux-wall. A ballistic hitting its target. All things have potential energy. All things are moments away from force. Pure solar energy into kinetic force.

 

       Did I know what I was doing as it concentrated into my palm? What else but knowledge would allow me to shoot perfectly, at his feet, blasting him fast and hard into a building. Much like a ragdoll, a physics simulation, he snapped in unreal ways, and laid motionless on the ground.

 

       I couldn’t really process what I did. Whenever I think about this moment, I really think that I just didn’t know how to use my powers. I think that way. Isn’t that right? Can any person really know how to do something like this perfectly?

 

       My run petered to a gait, which turned into a useless walk. Paul isn’t going anywhere. My anxiety choked up into my throat as I crouched to check his pulse. It was still there. I felt for his breath for just a second and pulled my work phone from my sweatpants pocket.

 

       Quickly scanned for Rodney’s number and called it. I’m supposed to report back to our sergeant but I’ll let him sort it out.

 

       “Ugh, sunshine and it’s not even morning yet. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

 

       “Not really. I’m out working.”

 

       “I don’t really give a shit what you’re doing. This better be good.”

 

       “Something went wrong with my contact.”

 

       “Yeah, can’t really trust the shitty tips we get. Let me help you stop having to do this shitwork. But later.”

 

       “No, that’s not the problem. I uh... fuck. What am I supposed to say here? I, um, used excessive force apprehending a suspect.”

 

       “Oh... well you’re fucked.”

 

       A brief silence hung in the air.

 

       “No, it’s going to work itself out. Look, I know you and the sarge don’t get along but he’s the one you need to talk about this. There’s a process to this. You’re going to get out okay. No one is going to feel bad for one strung out hobo.”

 

       There’s a process to this. He says this, just this. “Yeah, I hear you, I’ll call the sarge,” I said and hung up.