The dream came again, searing itself into my mind with the stench of smoke and the piercing echo of Claire's screams. Fire, always fire, licking at her, consuming everything in its path. I ran, my legs burning with effort, but it was never fast enough. Just a pile of ash where she'd been.

“Suthard! What is it?” Mrs. Kirkwood's voice, sharp as a tack, pulled me from the nightmare's lingering grip. I mumbled an apology, a pathetic excuse about the Civil War, and ducked my head as the class giggled. Claire, my best friend, shot me a worried glance, her lips silently forming, 'Are you okay?' I nodded, but my mind was already drifting back to the terrifying vision.

Later, by my locker, Claire demanded, "Alright, spill it." I tried to brush her off, but she knew me too well. "Another dream," I admitted, the words feeling ridiculous as they left my mouth. "This one was really stupid. You set the school on fire—with your hands." Claire stared, then whispered, "Shut-up! You had another dream! Like the other mojo one? What happened?" She was always the one who believed in my psychic flashes, even when I doubted them myself.