[photo by Dottie Di Liddo from Unslash]

Hatteras, N.C. August 2006 

Leni

I tighten my fist around the unyielding doorknob. "Come on you stubborn hunk of wood," I whisper. "I need this." The only other way out is through the kitchen, where my sister has been stationed all weekend—stockpiling our freezer so she can continue to mother me from afar.

"Let me sneak out and I'll..." I have no idea how to bribe an ancient fisherman's cottage. What would it even want? We just patched the roof last month. "How about I oil all your hinges when I get back?"

The tarnished brass knob doesn't budge.

"Fine," I say, lifting both hands in surrender. "I'll just climb out of my bedroom window."

There's a soft click and the door opens, scraping a sigh against the wood casing. Brined air gushes in to flutter the pages of one of the bridal magazines cluttering the coffee table.

"Leni, is that you?" Dee calls.

Her voice sounds muffled, though. She must be in the pantry. Good. I slip out onto the weathered front porch, grimacing as I pull the door closed. But the stiff hinges accommodate my escape with uncharacteristic silence.

I press three fingers to my lips and deliver a kiss to the splintered wood with a quiet, "Thanks." Then I run, taking the short cut through the neighbor's sand-spur lawn.

It's a short jog to the ocean: a stretch of pockmarked asphalt the length of five beach-cottage lots and then I'm in a scrubby patch of orange blanket flowers, starting the climb over the sand dunes. But there's no peace in escaping, no comfort in the salted breeze. I should be treasuring these last days with my sister. I'm going to miss her desperately when she's gone.

I groan and force myself to stay present, to focus on the constant rumble of the waves, the heat of the mid-day sun. And on the positives. I'm genuinely thrilled for Dee. Thrilled for myself even. Matt already feels like a brother. He's known about and embraced my differences for years. It would be great if they could stay in Hatteras. Really great. But I understand why they need to be in Asheville—why Dee would prefer to live there—and I want that for her.

Sand tugs at my flip-flops. I surrender them and keep running, pulling up my long skirt when my feet touch the Atlantic. But the cool water doesn't work its usual magic. It's getting harder and harder to shake this nagging clench in my chest.

I am not going to be alone. I have a good job and the people there are...not friends, exactly. But they could be. I will not allow myself to become a hermit.

A dark speck of grey winks up at me from the thin sheet of water gliding over the shoreline. I poke a finger into the soupy sand and pull out a rock, tumbled smooth by the pounding waves. Nothing spectacular, but I drop it into my pocket.

"Crap." My phone is not in my pocket. Dee will find it charging on my dresser when she notices I'm gone. Then she'll be pissed.

I pivot. Walk a few steps and turn again. "I'm not going back."

Dee knows me better than anyone. She'll know I'm on the beach and hopefully she'll understand why. I resume my brisk pace. Then give into the impulse to run again, as if there's a way to get some literal distance from my problems. As if the problem isn't me.

It takes a few moments for my brain to register the surfer. He's obviously not a complete novice. He can get himself past the break and seems to have a decent read on the waves. If he'd just loosen up a little once he's on his feet, he might get more than a three-second ride.

But, wait—is he out here alone?

I slow to a walk, scanning the water. Yep, just him. And he's not one of the locals—I've spent enough time watching them to know that much. Does he know about the rip current? Has he noticed how close he's veering toward the jetty?

He topples into the water again. But it's messier this time: sprawling limbs and desperation. The wave takes hold of the surfboard in a way it normally wouldn't—not if there was a person attached.

Please do not tell me the idiot isn't wearing an ankle strap. "Come on," I whisper, already wading into the surf. "Normal people can't stay under this long. Pop your damned head up."

I stop, thigh-deep, and tie a knot at the front of my skirt—just in case I need to swim. Then I wade deeper, dropping a hand in the water, palm open. I've always been able to sense the presence of ocean inhabitants, large or small. I never had an opportunity to test my theory during those teen years when I worked as a beach guard, but I often wondered if I could locate a human body the same way.

But it's not going to work unless I calm myself down and focus.

I close my eyes as I lean into the force of a wave. The water is cool and...vibrant. There are several small curious fish—and yes, something large and alive and definitely not of the ocean. The foreign body is eerily still. I dive under and kick my legs, swimming with my eyes open out of habit more than necessity.

The Atlantic is murky today. I sense the little fishes closing in on me before I spot them: five finger-sized flashes of silver. They scatter when I find the surfer—pinned against the rusted remains of the jetty, tendrils of blood curling out of a gash on his forehead.

It takes both my arms to secure his large frame against my chest, making it difficult to swim but not impossible. Not for me. A wave pushes us into the shallows and I readjust my grip. I manage to drag the man onto the shore, inch by inch. Then I collapse on my knees beside him to catch my breath.

He starts coughing up water on his own, which is a huge relief. But the feeling doesn't last. His injuries are serious.

"It was incredibly stupid of you to come out here alone," I grumble as I survey the beach. The lighthouse monument is a popular tourist spot. Except for today, apparently. So there's no way to call for help. "Unless you have a phone in your car?"

The man moans. His eyes flutter. Then his face contorts with a shiver of pain that takes him back into oblivion. I nod to that. Unconscious is best, considering I have no other option. I center myself with a deep breath and lower a palm over the gash in his forehead. Just as I make contact, something stings my lower back.

I jerk away—not from the pain of it so much as the shock. I reach around to feel for a wound, but there's nothing. No puncture point, no residual tenderness.

That makes sense now that I think about it because the sensation was internal, more like a twinge of heat, sharp and biting. And it seems to have originated somewhere in the vicinity of my birthmark?

No. That doesn't make sense. I refocus my efforts, my palm to his forehead. Another bite of heat comes with the contact but I don't pull away this time. And the pain on my back persists.

"What the hell?"

This is extremely weird—even for me. But I have to ignore it. I have a job to do. I stack my free palm over the hand covering the man's head wound and concentrate. A coil of pressure tightens the length of my core as I summon the healing energy. I close my eyes, imagining the darkest, coldest depths of the ocean in an attempt to offset the intensity of the heat traveling through my arms and into my hands. And I breathe, slow and even, waiting for the burn to dissipate. Waiting for the chill to come to my palms, the sign of success.

The weird, stinging sensation heats my birthmark as I repeat the process over the torn flesh covering the man's ribs. And again when I straighten the unnatural position of his arm and focus on repairing the broken bones. There's no question of the correlation. It's beyond bizarre. But this is not the place for deliberation. The man is out of danger now. Time to leave.

I walk to the water's edge. His blood washes easily from my hands, but the spots on my skirt are stubborn.

Oh, and I should clean the evidence off his healed wounds. I make a cup of my palms and carry water to drizzle over his hairline. Then use the hem of my skirt to scrub at the crusted remains of blood—careful at first, so I don't make direct contact with his skin. But then less so.

All my life, I've only ever thought of my birthmark as a novelty, another unexplained curiosity on a long list. So what does it mean that it's behaving this way now? Is it some kind of indicator, gauging the severity of his injuries?

No, it couldn't be. I've treated worse—much worse.

It's obviously unique to this man. But why? "Who are you?"

Minor cuts and bruises disappear under my hands as I slide them over his body, finding legitimate opportunities to test my birthmark's response. It doesn't seem to matter how serious the injury, or if there's an injury at all. My birthmark warms with the same degree of intensity every time I touch him.

And it feels...

Extraordinary is the word that comes to mind and I huff out a breath, a little embarrassed. But yeah, now that the initial shock has passed, touching the stranger is not unpleasant. Not at all.

I'm not sure I've got the right word, though. I'm not sure there's one word that could describe this. It calms me, but not in the same way the ocean does, that pervasive tranquility and...connectedness. This is more like being comforted by a warm hug, a good memory or my favorite food. Or actually it's all of those things, combined into one massive dose that can be administered with just the touch of a finger.

Yeah, I guess that's pretty extraordinary. But then there's also the thing that's going on with the muscles in my stomach. Which feels...I don't know. Like I've swallowed electricity?

The man's skin is nearly flawless by the time I satisfy my curiosity. Oops.

I stand, stretch and move away from him—just a few steps. Then settle myself at the edge of the shoreline to watch the clouds catch the colors of the setting sun, feeling a twinge of guilt, because I really shouldn't be lingering.

The first time I altered the course of a stranger's life, I was about twelve. I was afraid to touch the broken man from the boating accident, but my father encouraged me. And it was the most incredible feeling, sublime satisfaction. Fulfilled purpose. Years later, when I was old enough to earn my lifeguard certification, Pop made me promise to use my healing ability only if there were no witnesses around. But it wasn't until after he died that I started walking the beach, looking for souls to save.

I roll my shoulders back and forth to work out the stiffness. "Stand up and walk away," I tell myself.

But I don't want to. This man and I have a connection—maybe the one I've been waiting for.

He groans and I glance back. Last chance. If I'm going to keep my promise, I need to leave before he wakes.

I sigh, digging my heels into the wet sand. Curiosity wins. 

Topher

The light is too bright. Even through closed eyelids. And my skin. There's a breeze of some kind, but it's not constant and in the momentary lulls, it burns like...

Sunburn. Right. I'm outside. Now the thundering makes sense: waves crashing onto the shore. The grit in my mouth is sand. I was surfing.

Or rather, attempting to surf.

I bring a hand up to shield as I squint my eyes open. The sky is blue, streaked with pink clouds. I remember standing as the surfboard planed, but I lost balance and fell into the ocean and then... I've somehow washed ashore?

That seems unlikely.

My head throbs when I lift it and my vision is a bit hazy. Is that a human form?

I ease myself up a bit more, digging my elbows in the sand to prop my upper body, and blink until I'm convinced. It's a woman, sitting just a few feet away. Her blond hair hangs in wet coils down her back. Damp clothes hug her lean body.

She has obviously been in the ocean. And her proximity to me seems intentional. I open my mouth to call out but my throat is coated with sand. My reflexive swallow is agony. Tiny shards of glass lacerating the entire length of my pharynx. And so it's my pitiful moan that draws the woman's attention.

Her eyes are, without question, the most unusual I've ever seen. Almost too large for her delicate face with irises so unbelievably pale, I am questioning my vision. Again.

I force another painful swallow and offer a scratchy, "Hello."

She acknowledges with the merest of nods, her expression unreadable. But I feel certain it's due to me, to my unfortunate condition, that she's sat there. "Did I...did you...help me?" I ask.

The woman draws long legs under her body, stands and stalks over. "You shouldn't have been anywhere near the jetty."

Her tone is informative, but with an edge. Irritation. Or possibly anxiety?

She extends a hand and I take it, her grip firm and functional. She has to shift her weight to counter mine as I rise clumsily to my feet—and she lets go a bit prematurely but I manage to set myself to rights.

Up the beach, there is a line of rocks, piled against a rusted steel wall that disappears into the surf. The jetty, right. Will had mentioned it.

It's not remotely as interesting as the scowling woman standing before me, though. Her height nearly matches mine—which is better than six feet.

She is my match, my anima gemella.

I nearly laugh aloud at the absurdity of this unbidden thought. It's been a very long time since I've thought of my mum's prophesy.

The woman before me narrows her eyes and I attempt to school my expression. I was being chastised, wasn't I?

"Did you have to pull me from the ocean?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, curtly. Then my rescuer casts round, surveying the beach. "I didn't find your surfboard."

"Oh. Perhaps I should take that as a sign I need a new hobby."

It's meant as a joke, but she doesn't respond. If anything, she looks like she agrees with me.

Sensible.

A dull twinge permeates the base of my skull. "Am I bleeding?" I ask, reaching round to examine it. There's no cut. No swelling. But I feel as though... No. "I'm positive I hit my head?"

The woman—I should ask for a name—merely shrugs. There was no response to my attempt at humor. No sign of empathy now. Her reticence feels British but her accent, what little I've heard, is American.

"Well. Either way, I owe you my gratitude," I say. "I'm Topher."

I extend my palm. She stares at it.

"This is the part where you shake my hand and tell me your name so I might thank you properly."

She lifts her eyes to mine and it's a shock all over again: the size, the sheerness of the blue. But there's a hint of warmth that wasn't there before. She breaks the gaze to study my hair momentarily and says, "You have an English accent," as if this is somewhat of a disappointment.

"I've been in the great state of North Carolina for about ten years now but yes, originally. Topher from London. And you are..."

"Galene," she says, putting her hand in mine.

And then, good God, a smile. It's slight and brief, but it feels like a monumental victory.

"Galene," I repeat, testing the pronunciation. "That's an unusual name."

"Yes. It is." She curtly retracts her hand, forces a polite, entirely unsatisfying smile, and turns away.

"Wait, please."

She hesitates a moment before turning to face me.

"I meant unique. And lovely. Thank you for rescuing me, Galene."

"You're welcome," she says—quite sincerely. Then she walks away in long, determined strides.

I take a couple of steps before I catch myself. "You can't follow her, you bloody idiot."

That name, though. Galene. Maybe I was wrong to call it unique. I would swear I've heard...no, seen it written. Somewhere.

An Internet search will answer that question.

I head to the parking lot clenching and releasing my left fist, trying to identify the sensation in my forearm. There's no pain when I open the Jeep door. But there is something, a tight twinge of sorts, when I reach for the glovebox to retrieve my phone. Not muscle, though. It's deeper than that.

A hairline fracture?

That's possible, I suppose.

I turn on my mobile and check the time. It's half-six. If I drive straight to hospital, I might catch Will before his shift ends. A quick x-ray and then I can concentrate on Galene.