The door tore itself from Dylan’s grip and slammed itself shut. His shell-shocked brain barely had time to register what had happened before Cynthia turned back to him. “You’re angry,” she said. “I’m not going to say I’m surprised. I won’t even deny you have some cause to be, though less than you think. I will explain everything in time. But not now. We need to leave.” Now her voice hardened. “And, despite what you think of me, I am still your mother. I will be addressed as such.” But Dylan was no longer listening, rather reaching out to touch the door in disbelief. “What the hell was that?” he said, looking back and forth between the door and his mother. He wanted to believe that a breeze had blown it shut and his mother’s command was only a coincidence. But Dylan knew he had not felt so much as a gentle wisp of air. Cynthia smiled. “Do you want to know what I did?” she asked. “I can show you. That and so much more. We can start once we’re on our way.” For the first time, there was warmth in her voice, and she reached out to touch Dylan’s shoulder awkwardly. The contact broke the spell Dylan had felt descend upon him, and he jerked back. “No,” he said, pulling away. The initial flush of anger was beginning to fade, and Dylan felt drained. He
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