The classroom hums with Saturday morning stillness, its windows framing a crisp November day. Melanie Crenshaw stands at the front, her silver hair catching the light, a tablet in hand. Ella, Roxana, Eileen, and Helana sit at desks, notebooks open but their attention drifting. Melanie begins, her voice warm but firm, "Today's about being effective influencers and role models. Your presence—online and off—shapes others, especially your peers."

Helana raises her hand, her expression troubled. "Miss Crenshaw, I have a problem. I set up my Instagram like you said, posted pictures with my girls, and the comments scare me. They're mostly middle school girls, some boys. Look." She passes her phone, and Melanie scans the screen, reading aloud a sampling:

• You’re so pretty, you’re gorgeous, it’s insane!
• SO BEAUTIFUL!! You’re perfect.
• I wish I had your genes.
• How are you so pretty?
• You look so healthy, glowing!
• I can’t explain how gorgeous you are.
• Follow me, please, please!
• Are you even real??

Ella grins. "We *are* gorgeous, twin." Melanie hands back the phone. "There's a lot here. Recent events—the mall incident, your training—have forged a deep confidence in you. You no longer doubt your beauty; you embody it. Your walk, your talk, your presence radiates assurance, making you more striking. You're becoming celebrities."

Melanie pauses, her tone serious. "There's a saying: you attract what you are. That's partly true, but more often, you attract those who crave what you have. Young girls lacking confidence are drawn to yours. Be cautious—some attractions can harm. You can also attract opposites: kindness draws abusers, honesty attracts liars, faith draws skeptics who hate what you cherish." Roxana says, "We get haters too. Our moms delete those comments." Melanie nods. "Yes. For every admirer, there's a jealous hater who resents your light and wants to dim it. Don't respond to either—lovers or haters. Engaging encourages them, and some may seek you out to harm you."

Eileen smirks. "What about comments from guys wanting a 'hot girlfriend'?" Melanie says sharply, "Don't respond. Those can spark fatal attractions—dangerous obsessions. Same for girls with similar intentions." Eileen presses, "Who *can* we respond to?" Melanie replies, "Each other, and friends you knew before Instagram. Only those you trust. Strangers could be impostors—adults posing as kids. That's risky if they learn too much about you."

Roxana, fidgeting, asks, "Should we even be on social media? It sounds dangerous." Melanie says, "Danger's everywhere. Social media's key to engaging your peers, so use it—carefully." Ella, eyes narrowing, asks, "Is the Navy spying on our accounts?" Melanie confirms, "Absolutely. So are the CIA, NSA, and marketers for Target, Walmart, Macy's, Kohl's, and thousands more. Foreign governments too. Never post anything you don't want the world to see."

Helana asks, "How should we present ourselves as influencers?" Melanie replies, "Be authentic. Show your best self, not a pretense. No photoshop, no 'woke up like this' after an hour of makeup. Just be you." Ella says, "At school, girls approach us, want to talk, hang out, sit with us. Some follow us around. Should we shoo them away?" Melanie advises, "Be kind but firm. Needy people can push boundaries, but don't be cruel—you'd earn a 'mean girls' reputation. Experiment to find what works. This is your toughest challenge."

Eileen, grinning, asks, "Can the Navy buy us new outfits? Influencers need style." Melanie laughs. "The Navy'd love to issue uniforms or jumpsuits, but you'll have to get your own clothes." The classroom door swings open, revealing Alisha Patel and Robert Danvers in Navy-issued jumpsuits, their faces tense. Ella, startled, says, "Mom?" Eileen adds, "Dad? What are you doing here with Ella's mom, in jumpsuits?"

Mr. Danvers says, "Commander Beaker needs you for an afternoon mission. There's a situation they want you to investigate. Alisha and I are coming along. We're heading to the airport, but it's your choice—you don't have to go." Curiosity outweighs hesitation, and the girls agree. Mr. Danvers drives them to a private airstrip, where a sleek jet waits, its engines humming. Aboard, they're handed jumpsuits. Ella, wrinkling her nose, asks, "Why jumpsuits?" Beaker replies, "We don't know the situation. We don't want your clothes ruined."

Roxana asks, "Where are we going?" Beaker says, "Cincinnati, Ohio." Eileen scoffs, "Cincinnati? What's there?" Beaker replies, "Maybe nothing. Our sensitives—psychics and remote viewers—have picked up cries for help in the area, possibly from young females. They can't pinpoint it. Your telepathy's stronger, so we need you to try." Ella asks, "We're listening for cries? Then what?" Beaker says, "Guide us to the source, maybe communicate to assess the danger."

Ella says, "You made us skip lunch. Is there food?" Beaker smiles, "Pizza, wings, your favorites." Ella frowns. "You did it again, sir. I'm not your sweetie. Please stop." Beaker apologizes, "Apologies, ma'am. I'll do better." After a two-hour flight, the jet lands, and a transport van speeds them into Cincinnati's suburbs.

Eileen nudges her dad. "Excited, Dad? Maybe aliens?" Mr. Danvers chuckles, "Exciting, but no aliens." Ella asks, "Mom, you excited?" Alisha's eyes soften. "I came to see what I suspected. You're a telepath, like your great-grandmother in India." Ella, stunned, says, "Really? Why didn't you tell me?" Alisha explains, "She was our village shaman. She read thoughts, spoke to animals, even the dead. We didn't tell you to avoid scaring you. Now that you have these gifts, it's okay to know." Ella says, "I can't talk to animals. And no way I'm talking to dead people." Alisha replies, "Those gifts may come. Don't fear them. The dead are just people."

Beaker says, "We're here," as the van stops in a quiet neighborhood. "It's up to you girls. Focus, but no pressure. If you hear nothing, we'll go home." The group falls silent, the only sound the distant hum of traffic. Eileen, restless, asks for more pizza, and it's delivered from a nearby gas station, where the girls also use the restroom. After two hours, Helana stiffens, followed by Eileen and Ella. Helana, her voice low, says, "It's not a voice. It's a feeling—a direction, like 'come here.' Someone's telepathic, but it's muffled, suppressed."

Beaker asks, "Can you point it out?" The girls turn, pointing in unison. Ella says, "Over there." Beaker asks, "How far?" Eileen replies, "We don't know. Just that way." Beaker says, "We'll triangulate. Alisha, stay with Ella and Roxana. Mr. Danvers, take Helana to another spot. I'll take Eileen. We'll use walkie-talkies." Cars arrive, and the groups split, driving twenty minutes to new positions. Walkie-talkies crackle with coordinates: 302 degrees, 210 degrees, 105 degrees. Beaker punches numbers into his tablet, pinpointing a large suburban house as night falls.

Helana, her voice trembling, says, "I hear them clearer."

Beaker asks, "What's their situation?" Helana pales. "Oh my God. I got a visual download." Roxana, her voice breaking, says, "Me too. It's evil." Ella steps in, her voice steady but strained. "They're called the pleasure children, used as rewards for adults who complete jobs—horrible ones, like murder. They throw parties where these kids, some as young as six or seven, are forced to… pleasure them. They wear costumes or nothing, servicing old men, women, sometimes each other while adults watch. It's vile."

Alisha, her voice thick, says, "I'm so sorry you saw that. Some things are too horrible." Beaker says, "It's a pedophile ring, human trafficking. The FBI and local police will conduct a health and safety check to rescue these kids and get them home." Helana says quietly, "Home might be hard. Some aren't from this country. Some, though human, aren't from this planet." Beaker replies, "We'll figure it out. They got here; we'll get them home." Mr. Danvers, incredulous, asks, "Alien kids?" Beaker confirms, "Yes. And per your oath, this is top secret. No UFO conferences, no friends."

After a late pizza dinner, the group returns to the airport, the girls collapsing into sleep on the midnight flight home. At 3 a.m., Ella stumbles into her bedroom, the house dark and quiet. She slumps at her desk, opening her diary, her mind reeling.