“I fear it is beyond your abilities, grandfather,” I say softly.
He clucks his tongue. “Would we be here in this moment if I couldn’t ease some of your pain?”
I hesitate. But I can’t figure out if it’s because I don’t want to disappoint him when it turns out he can’t actually do anything about the aching wound on my shoulder? Or do I not want to disappoint myself when he can’t heal me?
A softer version of his grin reappears. “Maybe you aren’t the wisest person in this particular room …”
“Zaya,” I say. Essence shifts between us as if my name is offered, and then immediately accepted by Isaiah, as a gift. “And I never think I’m the wisest, just … I accept. I accept this is my path to walk.”
“Over broken glass and through hurricanes,” he says. And for a moment, I think he might be mocking me. “You endure as if there are no other options. No possible respites that you leave at the roadside, striding past, ever forward, because you believe that you must always endure.”
I stare at him, suddenly shaky deep in my core. As if he’s speaking to, and of, the fundamental essence that fuels me. Me, the vessel for the Conduit. “I … that is my role in this world.”
He tilts his head thoughtfully. “I hold out my hand to you, child. Take it with graciousness.”
I slide my hand into his. His fingers flex under my touch, under the touch of my essence, but he doesn’t pull away. He keeps his hold light. His skin is warm in a way that tells me I’m too cold.
The woman, Isaiah’s granddaughter, exits the hall to the bathroom, stumbling to a stop when she sees their booth is empty. Her head swivels frantically. Dark curls tumble around her face with the abrupt motion, and her dark eyes widen in utter terror when she spots me. And she can’t even see that I’m touching her grandfather. Yet.
“Aniyah?” Isaiah asks, without turning around. “Good. We’ll need her too.”
Aniyah — ‘God is gracious,’ though I don’t voice that out loud — almost stumbles in her haste to get to us. Careful to not meet my gaze, she actually chokes as she notes Isaiah holding my hand.
“Pops,” she cries. Then, as if catching the terror tied up in that one word, she glances around and composes herself.
“Ani,” her grandfather says with that seemingly unshakeable confidence, that pure goodness. “Zaya needs us, and we need her.”
“That’s …” Ani glances at me, then angles her body in an attempt to cut me from the conversation. “We discussed this. We don’t want to get involved.”
“You can feel me too?” I say. “My pain?”
Ani’s shoulders stiffen. “It’s none of our business. But yes, you’re broadcasting it loud enough.”
I meet Isaiah’s warm gaze. “You’re both healers.”
“We are … but we’re unique.”
“Pops …” Ani sighs, then rubs her face. She’s still clutching her purse.
Their clothing is well maintained, shoes polished. Everything practically pristine, nary a frayed hem in sight. But I catch the careful repairs with a closer look.
“Sit down,” Isaiah says, his tone verging on sharp.
Ani drops into the booth next to him, perching on the corner of the bench seat. She softens her own voice. “Please, I’ll sort it all out. I’ll take care of you.”
“Healers of your caliber —” I say.
“What do you know about it?” Ani snaps, momentarily forgetting that I scare the fuck out of her.
“Rudeness will not get you what you want in this world,” Isaiah admonishes.
“I don’t need anything except for you to be safe,” his granddaughter counters.
“I won’t let you build your life around me,” Isaiah says firmly.
“So you throw yourself at imminent danger?”
“The Healers Institute,” I say, trying to shortcut the conversation as the itch to start moving again — to stride ever forward, always enduring, as Isaiah put it — shifts through me.
