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<<Clark, I think it’s happening. Jon, he’s like you. He’s…changing.>> Uncertainty, almost overwhelming. And then a profound sadness. <<I thought you’d be home by now. I thought…I thought it would be you telling him. Not me. Not…not like this.>>

Jon turned over in bed, pulling the covers up over his head in a futile attempt to block both the morning sunlight streaming through the curtains and the rambling thoughts of his mother.

He’d hardly slept all night as thoughts had accosted him, randomly and sometimes all at once. He’d heard his grandpa mentally listing off the chores he had to do over the weekend and then felt an intense exhaustion and an aching deep in his bones. And he’d heard his grandma’s silent fretting over Grandpa Jonathan’s health… Something about an appointment next week with a specialist in Wichita because Grandpa’s heart was weak. And he’d felt her fear; he’d felt her heart racing and then her resolve not to let anyone know how scared she actually was.

And then Jon had lain in bed for some time, shaking with fear of his own. No one had told him that either—that his grandpa was sick. He’d had no idea.

What else had they been keeping from him?

He’d finally slept some, but only after everyone else went to bed. Apparently, his new mind-reading trick didn’t include being able to hear and see people’s dreams.

But his own dreams had been filled with things he couldn’t entirely explain. His dad dressed as Superman, the bright red cape billowing out behind him. A soft voice telling him, “You can control it. You just have to practice, kiddo.” Then his dad, whom he’d never even met, lifting him up effortlessly and flying them towards a bright yellow sun. Approaching the brilliant star together, energy filling him. But then, a sudden darkness, black and stifling and lonely, consuming him. Thoughts—terrible thoughts of grief and sadness and anger and hate—all pounding against him all at once. His dad’s hand taking his. “You can control it, Jon. Push it all away. Focus on one thing. One sound. One thought—your own thought. Hear that and nothing else. Or, you can focus on my love for you. Feel that and nothing else.” And then, the darkness brightening, and his dad standing in front of him once again, now dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and with his familiar black-rimmed glasses covering his eyes. His dad, again…kneeling down in front of him, setting both of his hands on Jon’s shoulders, and grinning. “See, you can control it. I love you, kiddo.”

Now, as he sat up slowly, his mother’s thoughts still jumbling around in his head, Jon tried to remember the feeling of the deafening blackness brightening into a calm quiet. He focused on that image of his father, kneeling in front of him, smiling.

And then, an even weirder thing happened.

His mother’s thoughts faded. And in their place, he felt impatience and frustration and anticipation. And he heard different words, a voice that he didn’t really recognize but that he inherently knew. The voice from his dream.

<<Four days to home.>> A pain in his left shoulder, aching, from an old injury. <<Hope the Sun heals this. But I don’t even… I just want to be home.>> An image of his mother with a huge, bright smile and much shorter hair. And feelings of love and longing and sadness. <<God, Lois, I miss you so much. I’m almost home, my love.>>

Jon tensed up as he heard the words echo in his head. Lois. That was his mom. And…and…

He screwed his eyes shut, and with all of his concentration, he focused on the image of his father again, with his kind smile full of love and pride. Almost immediately, Jon felt an overwhelming sadness, and he inhaled sharply and clutched at his chest as the unfamiliar feeling assaulted him.

<<Lois, my love… I hope… God, I hope you’re still waiting for me. What…what if—>>

The thoughts stopped abruptly, as did the powerful emotions that he’d been feeling, and instead, he was surrounded by a silence broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing.

Jon quickly opened his eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks, and he closed them again, desperation overcoming him as he tried one more time to reach out. He wanted—no, needed to find the voice again. His father’s voice. His father’s thoughts.

He lifted his hands up and scrubbed the tears from his cheeks.

“Dad… Please…” he whispered aloud, and he lowered his head into his hands as he tried to picture his father. But the image had faded now, fuzzy and out of focus, and the calm quiet he’d found before seemed out of reach, thoughts of the other occupants of the house invading his mind again.

<<Jon should be up by now. I need to sit him down. Tell him everything.>> Worry and love.

<<Rain next week will be good for the corn. But this darn heat. Ugh, my back…>> Aching and exhaustion. Worry and more love. <<Martha, what are we going to do? I can’t keep this up.>>

<<There’s not enough eggs. Maybe Jon can—>>

“Jon, dear?” his grandma’s voice called out from downstairs.

Shaking himself, he jumped up out of bed, hurried over, and pulled open the door to his bedroom. “Yes, Grandma! Sorry I slept in! I’ll go get the eggs for you!”

After just a moment’s pause, he heard his grandma’s voice again. “Thank you, dear.” And then, as he threw on some clean clothes and padded down the stairs, he felt her silent wonder.

<<It’s almost like he read my mind. Huh.>>