My dad used to smoke. It improved as I grew older, but the smell of nicotine clung to his jacket wherever he went. Smoking eased his mind, Dad had explained to me. The same way Mom would shop like there was no tomorrow. They sought the blanket that would tune out the rest of the world. From that perspective, it made sense why we never went to Canada's Wonderland. They knew I'd be addicted. Why else wouldn't I have gone here sooner?

After a day of adrenaline-pumping rides, I let the Windseeker lift me in the air. People commented on the exhilarating view of the amusement park at night. Sunset was equally as beautiful. Pink cotton candy clouds, the scent of sweets and fast food carried up by the breeze, and nothing but air beneath my feet. Below, roller coasters rose and fell in a rainbow assortment of spaghetti noodles.

My childhood dream. It was little more than looking from the outside-in from a brochure.

In reality though, it was a small relief to escape the Halloween craze. Canada's Wonderland was decked in jack-o-lanterns, fake smog, inflated monsters and your occasional zombie stalker. Not only was it super early in October, but the organizers had horrible layout sense. Where was the aesthetics? The style? It didn't help that most of the crowd was composed of rowdy teenagers. Good for them, I supposed. The only memory I had of Halloween was playing with my visions at home. Even today, I wasn't sure if the bats, shadows and off-putting lighting came as a part of my Unlocking ability during the haunting season. My imagination had always been rather dry.

The ride descended, exhaled and stilled. Stepping onto the hard tarmac, I made my way to Alphorn's Funnel Cakes and ordered the cholesterol-stuffed pastry for three times the regular price. Ice cream, strawberries and chocolate drizzle over fried batter: the perfect way to keep my mind circling within the bounds of the theme park.

I needed a break. GreenGlass was my sole reprieve where my efforts bore fruit with certainty. I couldn't continue to tackle five different problems at the same time. If I let them simmer, they'd boil over into a messy mix of personal and work life. I planned to sort these things here. A change in scenery never hurt; I worked better in dynamic environments, anyway.

I drew my jacket closer to me; the shop was freezing. Where was the heating? I hadn't expected the cold snap when I drove all the way to Vaughan. The drone of my doctor came back to me in sugar-jacked waves: Hyper-sensitivity to the cold, fatigue, muscle aches, and other symptoms courtesy of my hypothyrdoidism. I swore I layered up. On my funnel cake, the ice cream sagged into nondescript lumps.

It'd be a waste to not eat it.

I ate carefully, aware of the other customers present in the shop. At the table in front of me, a teenage couple shared a sundae. It occured to me: I'd eaten at least once with all of my dates before they or I broke it off. Except with Tai. He probably wouldn't pay attention to these types of things. Still, Mom's disapproving gaze had me staring at my funnel cake again. The sugary fried deliciousness stuck to the roof of my tongue.

I exited the shop.

After escaping a zombie stalker—fortunately the costumed woman got the message of my glare—I found a place to sit near the giant stone fountain that ran down International Lane. Dwindling sunlight swam on the water's surface. The crowds had thinned somewhat, allowing a clear view to the prettily-painted restaurants and souvenir shops. This area wasn't as congested with Halloween décor. Apart from the impressive pumpkin display, several paranormal mannequins, and the wayward leaf in the wind, it was an acceptable workspace.

Pulling out my notebook, I flipped the pages. My hand lingered on the incoherent scribbles that were my outlandish theory concerning Tai.

I hadn't come here to dwell on what couldn't be fixed. Actually, I had, but that was besides the point. It was a bittersweet relief that Tai was gone. But something made him stick in my brain like tape residue. Was it a stretch to assume Tai had an ability, like myself? Throughout my life, I had had peculiar interactions that warranted a magnifying glass. No, not the qualities that were idiosyncratic, but those with slightly inexplicable occurrences. A moved cup where there was no hand; the subtle shift in the earth that preceded a stumble. For the most part I'd ignored the signs. With Tai, I was even less sure. Asides from his personality, he seemed completely normal, and during our past dates I had excused my misaligned memory with coincidence. I hypothesized that his ability had something to do with forgetfulness. It would explain my hazy memories but that theory didn't satisfy me. It felt incomplete.

"Let's forget about that, Nora," I grumbled. Nothing but excuses; a bad habit passed down from the very best. Contempt simmered in me. I quickly flipped to my organized theories.

Firstly, the facts. The photo albums and a couple of successful Google searches were the biggest contributors here. Sometime in the 60s, my parents and my MacIntyre grandparents had immigrated from Scotland. Judging by the photos and mentioned names, Allison was Dad's sister. Which meant Dad had lived at the house, too. At some point before my birth, Dad moved to Toronto and married Mom.

Something must have prompted Dad to leave, then. Dread paused my pen over the paper. I scribbled a question mark. Why else would Allison hand down the house to me, and not her brother? What about the other brothers? Why not them?

I frowned and moved down to my shakier conjectures: the information I'd extrapolated from the memories locked in the MacIntyre key. Aside from Dad, none of the MacIntyre family was alive. This was why my Unlocking refused to show me more. The same scenes played on rewind through a grayish haze. And I hadn't gleaned much else from the rest of the house. Splattered paint, orderly office supplies, gardening tools, wood shavings, and books printed in Gaelic didn't help. They only reminded me of what was lost.

1. machine parts → automotive industry? Long hours?

2. Haggis + Scottish meals → a good cook. Grandmother?

3. paint → Allison's main hobby (lots of paintings in house)

4. running barefoot on the road → rushing? Why?

5. quiet → something happened. Unhappy?

6. overall remark → suffocating.

I knew the memories appeared in chronological order. I also knew these were the most persistent memories; not necessarily those that were the most painful, cheerful or recent.

The memories were insignificant by themselves. But considering them as a whole, I recognized the pattern.

The notebook fell from my lap as I stood up.

Without thinking, I took my phone and punched in the numbers to Dad's cell. I had to ask him. This couldn't be true. But what would I say? Chances were he'd thrown away his old number, anyway. My thumb hovered over the call button.

Not once. Not once had Dad tried to call me after I ran away. Whenever I'd check my phone, it was Mom clogging up my call history. I considered this. I'd taken two years of psychology before switching majors; from an academic standpoint, I knew perfectly well how history repeated itself in families. Generation after generation. Even my refusal to believe proved that this was happening.

The short strands of my hair tickled my neck as the wind blew. I stooped to retrieve my notebook. A dark-skinned hand picked it up.

"Here you go," the boy offered. He handed me back my notebook.

"Thank you, Vihan."

We stared at each other.

Vihan shouldered his backpack, where a metallic keychain—some sort of Minecraft emblem, perhaps?—dangled from one of the zippers. It was like he was going to school. Grade ten, wasn't he? Two more years until university. Emmanuel had expressed concern over his son's future. I'd met Vihan at a Take-Your-Kid-to-Work Day. I'd offered to show him around GreenGlass. He had been receptive, if not unenthusiastic. I'd told Emmanuel not to worry. It was the motivation that mattered. Not the knowledge.

Was Vihan still pursuing computer science? He was a smart kid. Whatever he wanted to do, I only hoped he'd use his brain to resist his impulsive tendencies. Such as coming here, likely without permission.

"You're surprised to see me here," I said, putting the notebook on the fountain ledge. "Likewise. Did you come with friends?"

A vague nod and a gesture to his group of friends hanging out on the bridge. Safety in numbers, at least. Vihan shoved his hands in his pockets. "I won't get lost. You...don't need to worry, Ms. Whelan. What are you doing here?"

"Never came here before. Thought I would like it."

"Do you?"

"Overall, yes. Seeing that I've spent forty dollars and tried some new things, it's late to regret the experience. But I could do without...him, for instance," I said, pointing to a man dressed as a vampire creeping up behind Vihan. He spun around. The vampire backed away.

"True that," Vihan said after a beat. He shifted on one foot. "I mean, you wear blazers and heels, so you don't look the type. But I can get that. For a second you looked—and I don't mean that I was like, spying or anything, but you look like something really, really bad happened. You were at the bar."

I raised my brows. My lip quirked up before spreading into a warm smile. "I'm all right, Vihan. Or I will be. This past week or so has been full of..." I sighed. "Unexpected surprises. I'm trying to work through them one by one. But thank you for your concern. That's kind of you.

"And I do frequent the bar, though I don't drink," I added. If Vihan was any other kid, I would have been much more uncomfortable knowing that he'd seen me with Tai.

Vihan shrugged uncomfortably. Eyeing my notebook, he said, "Didn't mean to be nosy. Just...I'm tired seeing people resort to drinks when the going gets tough. My dads almost divorced 'cause of that."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I never knew, but I can relate. You're not falling into those habits too, right? You're too young to drink."

"Nah, nothing like that. I just wanted to be outside of the house."

Regardless, I made a mental note to keep a careful eye out for next time. Both for Emmaneul and his son's sake.

Vihan glanced at the bridge, where his friends waved him over. "Man, can't they wait? Anyway, uh, thanks, Ms. Whelan. For listening and everything. Ms. Gathier says I can come to her anytime, but she's my dad's boss, so it'll be weird to just tell her, right?"

"It's Hannah's way of showing she cares."

"Yeah, I get that. But it doesn't feel like she can understand it all. Hey, you won't tell my dad about this, right?"

"Would it be better if I didn't?" I asked skeptically. Your dad worries for you, can't you see that?

"I mean, he'll figure it out, but Dad's been in a weird mood lately. He's been sorting out legal stuff—something about ownership. I think it's about his job. Would you know anything about it?"

"No, I don't..."

Vihan frowned, staring at his sneakers. I put a hand to my mouth, analyzing my past interactions with Emmnauel. I could never tell what he was thinking. Despite my frequent visits to La Patisserie Dans La Lune, Emmanuel and I remained acquaintances at best. In fact he'd nearly passed up the position. "He thought I was kidding when I offered him the job, could you believe it?" Hannah had exclaimed. "But I knew skill when I saw it. A stroke of luck, it was."

Emmanuel better not be quitting now. This deserved a visit to the confectionary.

"I guess I should be going now," Vihan said finally. "Thanks a lot, Ms. Whelan. See you."

I could barely return his fist-bump before Vihan jogged away.

It still baffled me why Vihan decided to trust me. Little prevented me from telling Emmanuel, though we were more acquaintances than friends. But Vihan knew how often I saw his dad at the confectionery. Was I thinking too deeply about this? The kid wanted to talk to me. And ask how I was doing. Simple as that.

I should do the same more often. I made a note to ask Emmanuel the next time we saw each other. Pointless as it might be—after all, why would Emmanuel tell Hannah or I this? We weren't parents—it couldn't hurt.

Shaking my head, I looked down at my notebook again.

My family's medical history was grim. I thought the chain of diseases only stretched the span of those in my immediate household. Yet the MacIntyre key showed me a similar domino-effect on my dad's side of the family. In the beginning, everything was fresh and new. They lived a hard life but a happy one. Then the doctor's diagnosis. Perhaps additional testing that revealed deeper, more expensive complications. Hours stretched at work. Time and hobbies sacrificed to care for the ill. The somber hush that'd turn a home into heavy, fragile glass.

Running barefoot....was that...? No. "You're jumping to conclusions," I told myself. The key would have been straightforward otherwise. Without Dad, Allison would have been the main caretaker. Yes. This was the most likely scenario. The stress of illnesses stretched for a long period of time. But would I have envisioned hospital beds, pills, or talk of someone dying? That would fit the 'persistent' aspect of my Unlocking ability.

It didn't line up. Who would run away from home without shoes? Then again, a sudden turn for the worse could plunge a person's mental state into the Arctic Ocean, so to speak. Shocking. Unbearable. They wouldn't be able to think straight. I touched my neck, dimly aware of my upcoming appointment for a thyroid scan. The doctor said everything was in control. Still.

It would be easier to ask them, I reflected. Hugo and Hannah had a point.

I sighed in defeat. Who was I kidding? Unlocking rarely showed me the full picture of any person or family. At best, the scope was limited. At worst it implied the opposite of the truth I needed. Unlocking was unreliable. Yet here I was. Crafting a story out of a few hazy memories. Grasping at answers without facing my parents head-on.

But doing anything else would be like betraying myself. Whoever's memories the MacIntyre keys showed, they'd experienced the same things I had as a girl. The vision had made me relive my childhood. To turn a blind eye, to accept things as they were would be foolish.

Steeling my nerves, I began to draft a careful message. Dad's Whatsapp icon stared at me as I typed. Then I punched backspace. No, I couldn't take the easy way. Dad was less likely to respond.

A few minutes later, I sent my message to Mom. The last half of the message was a blatant lie. Hopefully it'd be enough to soften her.

Hi, Mom. This is Nora. Tell Dad that in a couple weeks I'm set to inherit his sister's house. I think you'd known that already. Now I do too. I'm beginning to understand you made some hard decisions, but I have a lot of unanswered questions. Can we talk over Skype? Text me.

Three more weeks until my birthday, when the house would be handed down to me. It wasn't as much of a deadline as it was a test to myself. Too often, I'd let others take a steering wheel in my relationships. Even with Unlocking, I'd never truly been in control. Nearly all of my past relationships have splintered—because of inevitability, someone else's fault or my own, I'd walked away.

This time was going to be different. I'd taken the first shot. Nothing to do but wait.

My mind strangely cleared, I brushed myself off with renewed vigour. The fountain I'd been sitting on was now lit up in orange, violet, and watery red, illuminating the dark silhouettes that walked around the theme park. Now this looked like Halloween. Night had fallen in Canada's Wonderland.

I headed out the gates, shivering as the temperature dipped to freezing.

—

It took three tries before I hung my parents' work keys back on the key rack. My heart pulsed frantically for no reason at all. Courtesy of my growth spurt I was able to reach the rack with ease. Besides, I had a legit excuse for having the keys in the first place--Dad had forgotten them in his car. It was lucky I'd offered to clean his car, and thirteen year-old me patted myself on the back. Getting rid of the lingering nicotine scent wasn't the best chore in the world, but it was preferable to being inside the house.

But my hands shook like crazy. This was worse than trying to make small talk with R. I tiptoed back up the stairs to my room just as Mom came up from the basement.

"Nora, come and fold your laundry!"

Argh, now? My head was a lump of scrambled eggs, still reeling from my discovery. My feet shuffled back and forth. I whipped my head from my sketchpad, to the door, to the ripped out paper scattered on the floor.

"Coming!" I called. "Just a few minutes!"

I shuffled through my drawings. Most of these were recent, obtained from the past few weeks while the older ones hung in Grandpa's room. Turns out my parents bit each other's head off daily while I was at school. It was easy to dismiss it. Assume it was Mom making a big deal out of nothing, or pushing the same buttons to let off some steam. My visions said otherwise.

Mom had genuinely...suffered. Her successful siblings had all moved to the United States, leaving her and Grandpa behind. I crumpled a sketch of Mom crying in her friend's room before smoothing it out again. To think of Mom as anything but heartless didn't sit well with me. Mom had still made a horrible choice with Grandpa. She barely took care of him, instead shoving that job to me. But she tried her best, didn't she?

And what about Dad? Most of his memories were so hazy I didn't bother drawing them. They were dream-memories. Whenever he wasn't sleeping, he was working, and whenever he wasn't working, he was by himself. Unlike Mom, Dad didn't have friends. He was busy working to pay for Grandpa's expenses.

Then there were the memories that came in delicate, fragmented bits and pieces. I flipped over my drawings—sketching paper couldn't be wasted, so I'd drawn on both sides—and sat back. Was the key lying? Could it do that? I could still hear Mom's giggles as she bought a bunch of clothes I never saw her wear. That couldn't be true; money was tight. Because of Grandpa. Mom knew how exhausted Dad was every day, right? Mom loved Dad. They wouldn't have married otherwise.

Like a freaking addict, I flipped another drawing, and another, and another. I couldn't get enough of them. I wanted to see more, even if it intensified the pounding in my ears.

Receipts from fancy-sounding restaurants.

Flashing lights, tickets and gold coins stashed in a drawer.

The smell of Dad's cigars.

Mud-caked hiking boots.

Toronto from above, looking down, the wind blowing rudely into my ear.

A rap on my door.

I flinched.

"Nora, your mom's calling you," said Dad.

I steeled my nerves. "Okay."

I shoved the drawings under my bed and ran downstairs, nearly slipping on the banister.