Before my grandmother had passed away, she had told me that it is important to have a dream. Because with dreams, you have the motivation to achieve them.

However, when you can predict the future like Brooke, you witness upsetting visions that will haunt you for the rest of your life.

Brooke's vision shows a Hispanic teenager running away from something. The event took place in a low-income public school in Harlem, New York.

Sweat drenched his anxious face as the boy scampers down the hallway. Dark shadows surround him; he screamed at the empty hallways for help, but no one heeds his calls.

The teachers were gone; the students had already left the facility and the security guards stood outside smoking on blunts.

Glowing lights shone on a dark red snapback secured his brown, spongy hair.

And much to Brooke's surprise, the boy's white Brooklyn Dodgers jersey, baggy jeans, and black Converse sneakers were sprayed in someone's blood.

Bouncing on his back is the boy's dark blue bag with ink-black straps.

Monstrous noises began to pound behind him until the boy bursts into the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

Fluorescent lights showered on the boy's scared face. Though the vision was a little hazy, Brooke managed to catch a small glimpse of the boy.

His face is beaten up pretty badly; the boy's left eye is swollen; blood slithers down his nose and ears, and his lips grew to the size of a clam. Nevertheless, Brooke immediately recognized the small mole underneath his large chin.

Holy shit. Brooke thought. Was that Enrique?

The injured boy staggered into the middle bathroom stall, put down his backpack, and searched for something valuable when an unseen force grabbed him from behind.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Brooke stood like an object paralyzed into space. The warm air suffocated her; sweat trailed down her acne scars until it soaked her jeans.

What the fuck? Brooke thought. What the hell did she just saw?

Could it be another monster lurking about in California? Though she was visibly shaking, Brooke told her friends what she had seen.

"What?" Johnny blinks at his former girlfriend in confusion. "You saw a kid getting dragged around in the bathroom?"

Caleb's warm smile fades, whereas Nessa blinks at the rearview mirror, spotting a traumatized Brooke in the back seat.

"What happened?" she inquired. "Was he running away from the pigs?"

"No." Brooke answers. "There was no one in the school, except for the boy."

"Who is he?"

"I am not sure, but I think it was Enrique."

Brooke looks in Caleb's direction, hoping that he'll give her a comforting hug or a kiss. But much to the oracle's surprise, the boy hardly notices her.

When Caleb was a kid, he used to be friends with a boy named Enrique. Despite being a few years older than Caleb, Enrique treated the boy as if he was his little brother.

They would roam around the impoverished neighborhood, eating candy, steal sips of their foster father's beer, read Marvel comic books, and make lousy attempts at flirting with girls.

So, in honor of their friendship, Caleb had scraped enough money to buy Enrique an oversized Brooklyn Dodgers jersey for his seventeenth birthday.

At first, it was impossible to keep it because Enrique had loved the Chicago Cubs; but even so, he vowed to treasure that jersey until the day he died.

Tears formed in his brown eyes, as Caleb thought about his childhood friend. But he wiped them before anyone could see him crying.

Sadly, for the boy, his girlfriend hugged him and caressed his head.

"You said he was wearing a Brooklyn Dodgers jersey?" Caleb asks quietly.

"Yeah."

"Are you sure it was Enrique?"

Brooke bobbed her head.

"Yeah, I saw him wearing that old Brooklyn Dodgers jersey you have him. Also, I noticed he had a mole under his neck."

"What?" Caleb croaked. "I can't believe this is happening."

"I am so sorry, Caleb."

That's when Caleb lost it; he collapsed in Brooke's arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

The siblings had no idea what was going on between the lovers, however, Johnny swiftly pulls the car over, whereas Nessa crawled in the back seat and hugged Caleb.

"Hey, what the hell is going on?" Nessa says in a soft tone.

"Enrique's dead." he murmured. "I can't believe he is fucking dead."

Johnny's eyes glance at the rearview mirror.

"Who is Enrique?" he asks the grieving Caleb.

"My old best friend," said Caleb. "He and I used to grow up in the same neighborhood together when we were kids."

Johnny sucked his cheeks; whereas Nessa touched Caleb's right knee.

"Shit, I am sorry to hear that, man," she muttered.

The young telepath bobs his head, but he refused to make eye contact with his friends.

Quiet, Johnny slowly starts the automobile and drove home. No one spoke during the road trip; Brooke calmly strokes Caleb's hair, whereas Nessa grabbed hold of Johnny's right hand.

Tension spreads like wildfire. The music increased, but it didn't ease the children's anxious fears.

Twirling his knotted dreadlocks with her fingers Brooke suggests that they should attend Enrique's funeral.

"I am going to make a couple of phone calls," Brooke assures her sullen boyfriend. "Tell Enrique's parents the news."

Caleb lifts his head off of Brooke's chest, then said, "No, let me do it. I rather tell Enrique's folks than sit around and do nothing."

*      *     *      *
While Johnny, Nessa, and Brooke put away the groceries, Caleb picked up the phone from received, dialed the number, and called Enrique's parents to tell them the news.

Nessa's head hunched over her shoulders; dark red fingernails clutched cartons of milk and orange juice as she slides them in the fridge.

She watches Caleb leans against the wall, mumbling on the phone.

"This is just sad," Nessa grumbled. "I can't believe Caleb's best friend is dead."

Johnny shoves a bag of plastic loaves inside the food cabinet, leaves, and returns carrying an envelope full of cash and a letter Adam had sent in the mail.

According to the letter, Apollo is settling in Colorado with a new name, fresh clothes, and a clean slate. For now, Adam is making sure Apollo is getting himself situated—which was fine, in Johnny's opinion.

Sighing, Johnny tucks the silver coins and wrinkled bills inside his pocket but decides to give the letter to his friends when they were ready.

Though he and Nessa were not born in the murky streets of New York, the siblings had experienced Death before and it wasn't pleasant.

Their godfather Toshiro Kazami perished in a house fire—along with his wife and baby daughter.

In his will, Toshiro had left a katana and his wife's chest full of kimonos to the children.

Looking back, Johnny had found Toshiro's death to be surprising. But the world has already taken Toshiro and Kurt Cobain away from them; the least the siblings could do is remember them fondly. 

After putting away the groceries, Johnny and the girls approach the grieving telepath.

"What?" asked Caleb, after he puts the white landline phone in the receiver.

"We're worried about you," said Brooke.

"I know, I was reading your thoughts." Caleb paused to see Johnny and the girls frowning at him. "What? It's a habit. Anyway, Enrique's funeral will be held at a chapel in Harlem."

"Okay," said Nessa, bobbing her head. "That will give us time to pack and head over to the station."

"Hold on," Johnny intervened. "When does the funeral start?"

"Two days from now," responded Caleb.

"We should get packed, Enrique's parents had already paid for our train tickets."

Brooke blinked her eyes rapidly.

Wow, that was fast. she thought.

In the meantime, Nessa stares at the young telepath, unimpressed. "That's great and all, but can we lay down first?"

"Seriously, Nessa?" asked Brooke in a disdainful tone.

Nessa threw up her hands in frustration.

"What?" she growled. "It's not like we can teleport across America!"

Sensitive by her insult, Johnny was about to critique her laziness, when Caleb remarked that it was a good idea.

"We have three days until the funeral starts," Caleb reminded them. "So, maybe after we rest, let's get everything we need and go to the airport."

The telepath scans his eyes at his comrades' faces, who all seemed confident of his plan.

"Great idea, Caleb," said Johnny.

"Thanks." Caleb turns his attention towards the suitcase, then adds: "If anyone needs me, I'll be taking a shower."

Nessa, Johnny, and Brooke watched Caleb climb the steps. His lips shift into his typical goofy smile, but the boy's eyes say something different.

Soon after he leaves, the children split up and took care of themselves. 

They invited different bathrooms, showered, got dressed, and loaded their clothes in separate suitcases. 

Later at dusk, Brooke sets her suitcases on the right side of the bed. Her dreadlocks were untangled and transformed into an Afro ponytail.

Her reddish-purple shirt concealed her light blue shorts, making it look as if Brooke was not wearing anything underneath.

She stood in front of the mirror, studying the photos of her and Caleb exchanging kisses, dancing in the school gym, and making funny faces in front of the camera.

Picking up a mixtape off the stack, Brooke rubs her fingers across the dark gray surface.

Heavy D & The Boyz were the hip hop group she and Caleb had listened to on their first date.

They head over to Jackson Hole, where the movie Goodfellas was filmed. Brooke and Caleb dined on vegan cheeseburgers, malted milkshakes, and fries.

Brooke's lips stretched into a stupid smile thinking about Caleb's hopeless tactics to win her over.

At first, Brooke thought he was a criminal like her father had warned her about. But when she got to know Caleb, Brooke had sympathy for the poor boy and begun to see him in a different light.

She loved being around Caleb that she would often join him on his illegal escapades. But now, Brooke feels as though the boy she fell in love with is slipping away.

"Hey, Brooke." Caleb roams out of the small bathroom, wearing a light-gray tank top and a pair of dark blue boxers.

"Yeah?" Brooke sets down the mixtape on top of the dresser drawer, then wanders up to him.

"Do you know where my pants are?"

"Check the top-right drawer."

Nodding his head, Caleb shifts around Brooke so he can reach the dresser.

Brooke sighed. She collapsed on their bed, curling under the covers. Meanwhile, Caleb pulls out his black pants from the top-right drawer and put them on.

"Are you okay?" she asked him. Brooke knew that Caleb is grieving, but she didn't want him to feel like he was the one responsible for his death.

Unresponsive, Caleb addressed towards his side of the bed, crawled next to Brooke, and turned off the lamp without looking into her eyes.

Did I do something wrong? Brooke thought to herself. His dreads shivered as dead leaves shedding off of small twigs.

She bit her bottom lip to keep herself from crying. Brooke was not very close to Enrique, but she knew Caleb cared for him like his own brother.

Taking a deep breath, Brooke exhales and clenches her bedsheets when Caleb's warm hands hug around her waist. 

"You didn't do anything wrong," he mumbled into her left ear. "I am sorry you felt that way."

His warm breath excited her; Brooke's hands brush against Caleb's, feeling his small hairs.

Gentle lips caress the back of her neck until Brooke said, "tell me about Enrique." 

Caleb paused their intimate moment. "Why?"

"You never told me anything about him, except that you two grew up in the same neighborhood."

Brooke turns her head to Caleb then glides her body across the mattress towards him.

"What was Enrique like?"

"He was funny, smart, cool, and a bit of an asshole." Caleb brushed Brooke's hair away from her eyes and continued. "He was the first person who knew that I was a telepath."

Brooke blinks very slowly. "You told him that you were a telepath?"

Shaking his head in dismay, Caleb informs Brooke that he knew of the boys' powers, but he made a vow that Enrique would not rat him out to the others.

"Wow, he seems like a loyal friend."

Caleb grinned, "Yeah, Enrique always takes care of me. Even when I didn't want him to."

"I see."

The couple laughed for a couple of seconds when a thought came to Caleb Wolfe.

"Enrique was such a flirt. He always had a girl in his arms." he went on.

"What about you?" asked Brooke. "Were you a ladies' man? You know, before we met?"

Caleb sucked his cheeks and sighed, "I was bad at it. Hell, I was too scared to get a girl's number."

Brooke's eyes widen. "You were afraid of girls?"

"No." Caleb frowned. "I was afraid of getting rejected by girls. There is a difference."

Brooke covers her mouth to keep herself from laughing too hard.

"What?" Caleb muttered.

"Nothing."

The humorous tone in Brooke's voice enticed Caleb, prompting the boy to move swiftly towards her.

"What's so funny?" he whispered.

Brooke smirked. "I am trying to picture you as a thirteen-year-old kid, talking to a pretty girl in tight jeans and high heels."

Her boyfriend smirked. When he was thirteen, he had no time for girls; Caleb would stand on street corners selling drugs to addicts and meth heads.

"I don't like girls with tight jeans and high heels." Caleb pushes his dreadlocks away from his eyes, takes Brooke's hands, and tugs her close to his face. "I like you."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." Caleb smiled. "That's why I can't lose you, Johnny, and Nessa. You guys are the only family I got."

Brooke tilts her head. "Don't you have any friends in Brooklyn?"

An exhausted Caleb glanced at the ceiling. "In my neighborhood, it's every man for himself."

"Fuck, I am sorry to hear that."

"No worries." Caleb gave her a small peck on her forehead. "The only thing I like about my neighborhood is that it taught me how to stand up for myself."