The police training room smells of metal and oil, its fluorescent lights casting stark shadows.

Eight teenagers—Ella, Helana, Eileen, Roxana, and four boys—sit at tables, each with a disassembled Glock 22 pistol before them.

Judy Danvers, Eileen’s mother, stands at the front in her crisp police uniform, her presence commanding yet maternal. “Good morning,” Judy says, her voice clear.

“I’m Judy Danvers, a police officer.

The Glock 22, a .40 caliber semi-automatic used by federal agencies and police, is on your tables.

It’s in two parts: the barrel and slide assembly, and the lower frame with the trigger and grips.

I’ll show you how to assemble it, so you understand its mechanics.

In future classes, you’ll learn to disassemble, clean, and reassemble it.” She holds up the components, her movements precise.

“A gun, even for protection, isn’t for shooting people.

It’s a deterrent, creating an environment where violence isn’t needed.

The hope is you never use it.

But shooting at a range builds skills, ensuring safe, accurate use if protection is necessary.

Untrained owners have killed innocents through carelessness.” Eileen’s voice hums telepathically to her friends.

*Can’t believe they let Mom teach.

So embarrassing.

She probably insisted—doesn’t trust us.

Nice to see boys here, though.* Ella’s thoughts are sharp.

*A setup.

They’re picking boys for us to like someday.

Transparent.

They seem nice, but I’m choosing my own.

My family’s into arranged marriages—not for me.* Helana chimes in.

*I like the blond one.

Good vibe from his smile, his shoes.

I’d know more with eye contact.* *Reading him?* Roxana asks.

*You’re not supposed to.* *Not telepathically,* Helana clarifies.

*Just body language.

Reading boys is risky—even nice ones think gross stuff.

I don’t want to know.* “Girls, focus,” Judy says, her tone firm as the boys snicker.

“I’ll show you how to assemble, hold, and fire the gun.

Then we’ll hit the range, load the clip, and shoot targets.

Hold it firmly to manage recoil, or it’ll jump.

Aim accurately—don’t spray bullets everywhere.” Eileen thinks, *Why train us now? We can’t keep the gun until we’re 18.* *It’s about the boys,* Ella snaps.

*If you even talk to one, I’m pissed.* At the outdoor range, a cool May breeze rustles the targets.

Each student sets up in a lane, Judy guiding them to load clips, insert them, and fire.

Initial shots miss wildly, but practice steadies their aim.

The girls watch Eileen, curious if her mall shooting was skill or luck. “Roxana, no,” Judy corrects.

“Don’t hold the pistol near your face.

The slide can snap back and injure you.

Extend your arm, hands on the grip, clear of the slide.

It moves fast when fired.” --- ### Target Assessment Melanie sips coffee in Commander Beaker’s office, a tablet glowing with data.

The hum of May 29, 2025, at 11:25 AM MST, pulses faintly outside, the town’s scrutiny ever-present. “The kids are at the pizza place,” Melanie says.

“The girls avoid the boys but keep staring.

A good start.

They know we’re matchmaking—psychic, after all—but nature will take over.” “Good,” Beaker says.

“Target results?” “Fascinating,” Melanie says.

“Roxana missed most shots initially but hit the outer ring by her second clip.

Helana kept all shots on target.

But Eileen and Ella? After adjusting, their shots formed tight clusters—impossible for a Glock 22 with standard ammo and range winds.

Not even a sniper rifle could do that without balanced rounds.

Something else is at play.” “Something else?” Beaker asks. “Top shooters use psychokinesis to nudge bullets,” Melanie says.

“Ella and Eileen seem to have it, unknowingly.

This is our first sign of their psychokinetic potential.

We must nurture it.” “Spoons?” Beaker jokes. “Not funny,” Melanie says.

“These are rare gifts.

Nudging bullets takes little energy, aided by intense focus.

They might manipulate small objects—like console buttons—but we’ll see with training.” “What else can they do?” Beaker asks. “Too early to tell,” Melanie says.

“Our funding’s shaky.

They think we’re humoring spoiled girls.

I need concrete proof for the higher-ups.” --- ### Hunting for Food The forest hums with life, sunlight dappling the Patels’ campsite.

Alicia Patel, in a fleece jacket, frowns at her husband, Rahul, as he unpacks gear. “Rahul, I didn’t sign up for a weekend in the woods,” Alicia says.

“Why are we here?” “To spend time with the girls,” Rahul says, smiling.

“They’re always at Bob and Judy’s.

Plus, you had a week with them in the South Pacific while I was stuck working.” “Did we need Grandpa’s gun?” Alicia asks, eyeing the old rifle.

“It scares me.” “Just a single-shot .22,” Rahul says.

“Good for protection.” Alicia laughs.

“A bear would laugh at that.” “You never know,” Rahul says.

“Violent rabbits or squirrels might attack.

We could eat them.” “No way,” Alicia says.

“Fish, fine.

I’m not cleaning mammals.” “Ella will,” Rahul says. “That’s what scares me,” Alicia says.

“Are we raising Annie Oakley?” “Where are they?” Alicia asks, glancing around. “Helana and Roxana are fishing by the river, pretending not to talk boys,” Rahul says.

“Ella and Eileen are hunting in the woods.” “Hunting? With that old gun?” Alicia shouts.

“Are you insane?” “You said they excelled at survival training,” Rahul says, bracing for her reaction.

“I hunted with that gun at their age.

We must trust them, even with risks, or they’ll never grow.” “Maybe,” Alicia says, glaring.

“But now I’m stuck worrying.

You’re suffering with me—it’s my wifely duty.” “I know your style,” Rahul says, dodging playfully. --- ### Old Man in the Woods Ella pauses in the underbrush, the .22 rifle steady in her hands.

A rustle betrays movement nearby. “Come out,” Ella calls.

“We know you’re there.” “See me, can you?” an old man says, emerging, his beard wild, clothes patched.

“Didn’t know.” “Your noise gave you away,” Eileen says.

“Name? Do you spy on people out here? Live here?” “Ezekiel,” he says.

“Spying? No.

Forty years here, avoiding folks.

Not a people person.

Pretty girls alone in the woods—I check you’re safe.

That pea shooter’s no match for anything bigger than squirrels.

Good shots, though—two rabbits, one squirrel, three bullets.” “You’ve been tracking us,” Ella says.

“We’re fine, thanks.” “Yes, you’re capable,” Ezekiel says.

“But other sounds—not me.

They want to take you.

Bring you back, but bad experience.

Very bad.” “Alien abductions?” Eileen asks. “You know them,” Ezekiel says.

“Maybe not alien.

Bad Earth people, creatures.

They won’t come while I’m here.

I keep them away.” “We know how, too,” Ella says.

“Roxana taught us.

Thanks for watching out.

We’re heading back for dinner.” “Fish, rabbit, squirrel—my favorites,” Ezekiel says.

“Can I come?” “Sure,” Ella says.

“But we know you’re not just a hermit.

Stay that way around my parents—they’d freak if they knew what you are.” “And drop the Yoda act,” Eileen adds, laughing. --- ### Angels Unawares Alicia groans as the girls approach the campsite, dragging rabbits and a grizzled man.

“What now? Dead animals and a hermit? Next, leprechauns?” “Be nice,” Rahul says.

“He probably doesn’t get company.” “Hey, Mom, Dad,” Ella says.

“This is Ezekiel.

We invited him for dinner.” “Glad to meet you,” Rahul says.

“I’m Rahul, the girls’ father.

Helana’s prepped the fish.

Let me help with the rabbits and squirrel.” “No need,” Ella says.

“Ezekiel’s helping.

Just need a knife and rope.” “I have a knife,” Ezekiel says.

“Just rope.” “Great,” Rahul says.

“I’ll prep the fire.” “I don’t like how the girls act around him,” Alicia whispers.

“Like they know him, keeping him as a pet.” “Trust them,” Rahul says.

“Mistakes teach lessons.

It’s their call.” As the fire dies, Rahul and Alicia clean up.

The girls wave as Ezekiel vanishes into the trees. “Wait!” Rahul calls.

“He forgot his knife.” “No worries,” Roxana says.

“‘Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for some have entertained angels unawares.’” --- Ella’s tent is a cocoon, the forest’s night sounds a lullaby.

Her book light casts a warm glow as she opens her diary, the day’s events vivid.