Struggling to adapt to his seat, Mr. Sanchez asked the boy how he knew his son was dead.

"Actually." Brooke began softly. "I had seen a vision of Enrique being chased by a monster or something."

"What?" Mrs. Sanchez murmured. "You saw a vision? What do you mean, Brooke?"

That's when the girl grew quiet.

Colorful mermaids and exotic wildlife waved hello behind the glass barriers, but no one acknowledged them. Truth be told, the mythological creatures and sea animals have other things to attend to.

Water serpents lurk below the surface to find their meals; the hippocampi emitted a whiny neigh while swishing its tail across the water.

And don't get me started on Sirens. Their voices sang with lust and harmony, but their intentions are as cruel as any mortal who walks among the Earth.

Ignoring the vast water and inquisitive sea creatures, Enrique's parents ask the young oracle to give them some insight into their son's murder.

"Were you and Caleb at the scene?" asked Mrs. Sanchez.

"Not exactly," Brooke explained, pretending to study the chiseled graffiti on the table.

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"

Brooke twiddles her thumbs. She wasn't so sure if the couple would handle the truth.

Just then, a firm, yet polite Johnny tries to dissuade the topic, but Mr. Sanchez refused to heed his words.

A worried Mr. Sanchez gets up from his chair and gives her a worried smile.

"Just tell me what you saw," he urged. "Who killed our Ricky?"

Brooke looks up from the table and trembles like a leaf. 

"I don't know," she repeats, terrified. "It was too dark, and I couldn't see his face. Please sir, I—"

"The police won't tell us anything about that day!" Mr. Sanchez yells, reducing Brooke's sentence to tiny pieces.

"The doctors are giving us the runaround, and the only evidence we have is telling us that Ricky—"

"First of all, Enrique hates being called Ricky," Caleb spoke up coldly.

He glares at a speechless Mr. Sanchez then continued, "second of all, I respect that you and your wife are grieving over your son's death, but I don't appreciate you grilling my girlfriend for answers."

"So, unless you want the train conductor to throw us out, I suggest that you go back to your seat, apologize, and leave Brooke alone."

His unstable voice shook so loud that the train passengers looked at him suspiciously before returning to their hobbies.

Meanwhile, a mute Mr. Sanchez takes a cautious step back from a frank, yet ruthless Caleb, whose hands look like they were ready to strangle Mr. Sanchez's neck.

But luckily, he didn't; Caleb simply tilts his head back and squeezes Brooke's hand back.

His cold, brown eyes analyze the wrinkle lines reclining on Mr. Sanchez's expression until he utters an apology to Brooke, and then heads back to his seat.

"Jesus." Nessa murmured. "What's with Mr. Sanchez? I mean, I know he lost his son but—"

"He's just pissed off that Enrique is dead."

Johnny and Brooke inspect Caleb's stiff expression with shock.

Observing the middle-aged couple, Nessa clenches her hands into angry fists. She couldn't believe Mr. Sanchez would say that to Caleb!

Did it ever occur to him that Caleb cares about Ricky, too?

Hearing her angered thoughts, the telepath reassures Nessa that everything is going to be okay.

"Mr. Sanchez is a jerk—"

"He is grieving, okay?" Caleb interrupts. "The poor guy's thoughts are practically drowned with guilt. He even blames me for it."

One of the best things about telepathy is that you can discover people's true intentions.

When Caleb was younger, he had heard Mr. Sanchez mentally ranting about Caleb's trashy clothes and attitude. He also didn't understand why Enrique always spent time with him.

Brooke chewed the tip of her thumb. "Were he and Enrique close?"

"God, no." Caleb chortled. He pushes the sword in Johnny's way and added, "Enrique couldn't stand to be in the same room as his father."

"Why?"

"Enrique feared that he would never live up to his dad's idealized expectations." Caleb looks at Mr. Sanchez hugging his weeping wife.

Johnny, Nessa, and Brooke all bow their heads in silence. The train conductor stopped by, collected everyone's tickets, and left without a word.

Fishes, animals, and supernatural creatures all vanish without a trace. The vibrant aura dissipated like an invisible gas in the sky. The warm water darkens until the children couldn't see where they are going.

*         *           *        *
Harlem, New York: the center of music, African-American history, and a sense of community.

The Sanchez couple smiled and marveled at the laughing kids, enticing farmer's markets, and the warm aura burning their withered skin. Johnny, Nessa, Brooke, and Caleb, on the other hand, find Harlem as a nesting place for danger.

They were already aware of the dilapidated projects, crime, gangs, and areas that have been gentrified by powerful politicians. Cars zoom by; their radios played songs from Ice Cube to Craig Mack.

Mr. Sanchez cringed at the drivers' music selections.

It's like they have never listened to the Beatles or Jim Morrison before. he thinks wearily.

Back in his day, Mr. Sanchez would listen to music that talks about respect. Nowadays, teenagers treat Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre like they're the emperors of hip-hop.

Sliding his hands inside his pockets, Mr. Sanchez leads the kids to the broken down apartment over on the east side of Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard—right between 116th and 117th Streets.

Many black and Latino residents inhabit there.

Even though the neighborhood had good businesses, Caleb thought back to times when Graham Court had suffered from the crack epidemic, daily shootings, and lack of services.

Admiring the building, Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez head inside while Caleb froze.

"What's wrong?" asked Johnny, lowering his black sword.

"Nothing." lied Caleb, as if he had lost track of time. "I am just surprised, that's all."

Brooke swerves her attention to Graham Court then back to her sultry boyfriend.

Did Caleb use to live here? she wondered.

She always assumes that Caleb slept in alleys or trash cans — not beautiful places like Graham Court.

Brooke studies Caleb, whose fingers scratch an itchy spot on the center of his nose.

"Everything okay?" Nessa asks him.

"This place never changed one bit," Caleb mumbled silently.

Stunned, Brooke and the siblings exchange scared looks at one another before consoling Caleb.

"Caleb," Brooke whispers in his right ear. "If you don't want to do this, it is okay. We'll tell Enrique's parents."

Johnny and Nessa both nod in unison.

"You don't have to go through it alone," Nessa reassures Caleb. "We got your back, okay?"

Though touched, Caleb insisted that they should go on without him.

"Are you sure?" a concerned Brooke asked.

Caleb grins as he kissed the tip of her nose.

"I'll join you guys," he promised. "Go on, I'll catch up."

Still reluctant, Johnny and the girls followed Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez into the enormous apartment building. Meanwhile, Caleb fumbles into his coat pocket, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, takes one from the box, and sticks it in his mouth.

Next, he retrieves a silver lighter from his back pants pocket, then lits the end of his cigarette. Last but not least, he watches the smoke tumble from his lips.

He had quit smoking for two months; but every once in awhile, Caleb often does it to relieve stress.

Caleb's back tilts against the impenetrable pawnshop; he flips through people's minds as they walk by. All of a sudden, a clean-shaven man came out of the store, holding a large teddy bear.

The wind tousled his black suit. Earthly light warmed the man's coffee-brown skin as he looks down at the plush toy with excitement.

His yellow tie burned Caleb's eyes, while his ears deafen at the sound of the man's brown Suede shoes scratching the granite surface.

His daughter has just turned five today: so the father had decided to dedicate his time by purchasing a teddy bear from the local toy store.

Cars vanished into thick clouds of dust; no one loitered on the crosswalk. Grinning, the man strolled along the gray pavement when loud gunshots turned a peaceful community into a warzone.

Bullets hit the man's abdomen, head, and chest. He collapsed on the floor, dropping his now blood-soaked teddy bear beside him.

Men, women, and children all stopped what they were doing, dropped their things, and fled in different directions.

Police sirens and blood puddles. Bullet shells disperse across the gray pavement as if they were pieces of gold.

Even though the boy had caught a glimpse of a horrendous crime, Caleb calmly enters the apartment building before the cops arrive.

Now, I know what you're thinking: Caleb is as selfish as any gangbanger you had grown up in the 90s.

But before you judge his actions, put yourself in his shoes: you are in a harsh environment, where people constantly tell you to mind your own business.

If you attempt to tell the police that you saw a man shooting someone in broad daylight, there is a good chance you might get killed.

And besides, all Caleb and his friends care about is saving each other—not solving tedious murder cases.

Ditching his cigarette, Caleb eventually strolls past the dead body, then enters inside the apartment as if it was a normal afternoon.

*           *            *           *
Mrs. Sanchez poured every last drop of pumpkin-spiced tea into the children's mugs.

Music posters fasten to thick, burnt orange walls. Across from the living room is a tiny kitchen only two people can use.

Burnt orange walls gleam in the afternoon sunlight, whereas scratched floorboards settle below large kitchen appliances to support their weight.

Furthermore, the fridge sat next to the empty food cabinet. Soft brown cupboards hang over a working stove and a microwave oven.

The smoky-gray countertop is littered with dirty utensils and containers. Some dishes were neglected in the sink, while others rest comfortably in the dishwasher.

A cracked window produced crisp and filtered air. Large cabinets and fancy furniture bathed in lemon-scented wax.

Aztec masks, Hispanic paintings, and clay pottery scatter across the room. Footwear scuffle against the floor as Brooke cautiously moves towards the gray, glossy refrigerator doors.

Jesus Christ. she thought. This fridge is a lot bigger than the one at her aunt's beach house.

In the living room, Mr. Sanchez is busy tilting his brand-new Sony Trinitron television set, which reclined in the center of two deep red bookshelves full of records, dusty paperback novels, and old picture frames.

Tossing his apartment keys on the soft yellow couch cushion, Mr. Sanchez grinned at the fascinated children and told them that they can stay here as long as they want.

"We have running water, spare bedrooms, and snacks in the kitchen." Mrs. Sanchez grinned. "If any of you kids are hungry, I can make some grilled cheese sandwiches."

Johnny's lips arouse into a shy smile.

"That will be incredible," he remarks. "Thank you, Mrs. Sanchez."

Enrique's mother beamed while her husband examines Johnny's prized sword.

For some reason, Mr. Sanchez is drawn to the boy's weapon—like a moth trapped in a beacon of light. He wanted to touch it, but Johnny was very protective of his blade.

If anyone puts their fingerprints on the hilt, then Johnny will eviscerate them in their sleep.

Still, it didn't hurt to ask Johnny where he had gotten that sword from.

"Where did you get that?" he asks the boy. "Is the katana an antique?"

Johnny replies, "something like that." before heading upstairs.

His little sister follows after him, leaving Brooke and Caleb alone to discuss personal matters with Enrique's parents.

"So, the funeral starts tomorrow?" asked Brooke.

"Yep." Mr. Sanchez nodded. "Did you and your friends pack your clothes for the funeral?"

Brooke bobs her head. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

After stretching his arms, Caleb folds his hands behind his head, then examines the proud expression on Enrique's father's face.

Even though they are getting along very well, Caleb is still surprised that Enrique's father interrogated his girlfriend like a criminal.

He had suspected that Mr. Sanchez was controlling and abusive, but he couldn't find any proof—that is until he and his friends had lunch with Enrique's parents.

After the children were finished washing up, they came downstairs, devoured their grilled cheese sandwiches, and swallow their glasses of milk.

As they ate, Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez tried making small talk with this strange pact of kids. The couple brought up questions about their school, afternoon jobs, and favorite movies, but the kids hardly opened up to the Sanchez family.

Instead, they kept to themselves, mentioned little details about their past lives, and avoided talking about their parents.

Jesus Christ. thought Mr. Sanchez. Are these kids criminals? Did they run away from home or something?

Munching on her grilled cheese sandwich, Nessa wipes the breadcrumbs off the corner of her lips then blinked at Mrs. Sanchez.

The woman has a pretty face. Nessa thinks, admiring Mrs. Sanchez's features.

She has freckles splashed across her nose, a tender smile, and luscious dark hair.

Yet, when Nessa takes a closer look at the woman's eyes, she notices that Mrs. Sanchez wears more concealer around her right eye than her left.

Curiously, the girl wanted to ask her about it when Mr. Sanchez smoothed the silent tension.

"So, kids," he starts to say. He places his wine in front of him and asks, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Johnny, who had drained the last drop of his milk, replies with a casual shrug. "No clue."

"What do you mean?"

"We never thought about getting actual jobs."

"Why?"

The teenagers simply shrug their shoulders, irritating Mr. Sanchez.

Surely, they must be joking. he thought.

Kids around Johnny's age should be thinking about SAT scores and which college they are getting into.

"So, you don't have any plans to go to a good university?" Mr. Sanchez inquired Johnny.

Nessa is about to intervene when all of a sudden, a troubling vision prevents Brooke from eating her melting ice cream.