The Uber driver navigates Ontario's congested streets with the practiced ease of someone who's memorized every shortcut, pothole, and traffic light timing in the city. Her phone dangles from a dashboard mount, GPS voice occasionally chirping directions she probably doesn't need anymore. She checks it periodically anyway—professional habit, I guess—making sure we're still on the optimal route home.
We ride in comfortable silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Mom's probably running mental calculations about bills, work schedules, and how she's going to manage everything now that I'm back home. The driver's likely counting down hours until her shift ends, maybe thinking about whatever life awaits her outside this Toyota Corolla.
As for me, my mind keeps spiraling through surprisingly clear thought patterns, like someone upgraded my mental processor and forgot to mention it. The clarity still amazes me—how I went from being completely ordinary to whatever this is in the span of one electrical accident. Part of me is terrified it's temporary, some kind of neurological afterglow that'll fade once my brain chemistry stabilizes. That would be the cosmic joke of the century: getting a glimpse of enhanced intelligence only to have it slip away like a half-remembered dream.
But right now, while I still have it, the feeling is intoxicating. It's like suddenly being able to see in color after a lifetime of black and white. Every problem looks solvable, every challenge seems manageable if I just apply enough brainpower to it. The hospital billing situation proved that—I walked into that place as a victim and walked out having gamed the system like a pro.
I need to test the limits of this new state, figure out exactly what I'm capable of. Is it just enhanced analytical thinking, or is there more? Can I process information faster? Retain more details? See patterns others miss? Hell, for all I know, maybe I can read minds or levitate objects now. That sounds ridiculous, but then again, so did everything else that's happened to me this week.
I gaze out the window as the cityscape rushes past. People hurry along sidewalks with the purposeful urgency of ants following pheromone trails. Billboards advertise everything from fast food to life insurance, each one a tiny psychological experiment designed to make you want something you didn't know you needed. A few influencers walk down the sidewalks with their phones extended like digital shields, livestreaming their mundane existence to audiences of strangers who apparently find watching someone walk more entertaining than walking themselves.
Just another typical day in Ontario, where everyone's either rushing somewhere important or pretending their life is interesting enough to broadcast.
I lean back in my seat and let the rhythm of the road wash over me. There's something uniquely peaceful about car rides—the way the world slides by outside while you exist in this temporary bubble of motion and possibility. The gentle vibration of the engine, the soft hum of tires on asphalt, the occasional murmur of radio chatter from the driver's phone. It's hypnotic in the best possible way.
My eyes drift closed. Not from exhaustion—I've had enough sleep in that hospital bed to last a lifetime—but from the simple pleasure of being in motion toward somewhere I actually want to be. For the first time in over a week, I'm heading home.
---
"Sweetie, we're here."
Mom's gentle voice pulls me back to consciousness, her hand on my shoulder providing the kind of grounding touch that only mothers seem to perfect. I blink awake with that momentary disorientation you get when you doze off in the middle of doing something—the brief "where am I and what was I supposed to be doing?" confusion before reality reassembles itself.
We're parked in front of our building, a five-story brick structure that's seen better decades but still manages to maintain some dignity despite the chipped paint and slightly crooked "No Loitering" signs. Home sweet home, in all its modest glory.
"It seems like you're tired, sweetie. Here, let me help you out." Mom comes around to my side of the car as the driver waves goodbye and pulls away to find her next fare.
"You can put your hand around my shoulder if you want," she offers, positioning herself beside me with the protective instinct of someone who's spent the last week terrified their child might not come home at all.
"Thanks, Mom, but I can walk just fine." I take tentative steps toward the stairs leading to our building's entrance, testing my balance and coordination. Everything feels stable enough, though Mom hovers behind me like a safety net made of maternal anxiety, ready to catch me at the first sign of wobbling.
I make it to the bottom of the stairs without incident, which feels like a minor victory after a week of hospital beds and wheelchair assistance. But as I'm about to tackle the first step, the building's front door bursts open like something out of an action movie.
A blur of pink clothing and brown hair comes flying down the stairs faster than my adjusting vision can track.
"ZEPH!"
The shout hits me a split second before Ashley does, throwing herself at me with the reckless enthusiasm of a thirteen-year-old who's been worried sick for a week. I almost topple backward, but Mom's vigilant presence saves me from an embarrassing collapse as I manage to catch my little sister in a proper hug.
"Ashy. I missed you." The words come out rougher than I intended, emotion catching in my throat like I've swallowed sandpaper.
Ashley is our bundle of concentrated energy, a perpetual motion machine powered by curiosity, affection, and an apparently inexhaustible supply of enthusiasm for life. She's got Mom's brown hair and her own particular brand of fearless optimism that makes her believe everything will work out if you just want it badly enough. Right now, she's sobbing quietly against my shoulder, and I can feel her small frame shaking with the relief of having her brother back home and mostly intact.
"Shhhh..." I whisper, stroking her back with the same gentle rhythm Mom used to use when we had nightmares as little kids. "I'm fine, Ashy. Don't cry."
My voice cracks slightly as I feel that familiar prickly sensation around the edge of my working eye. Seeing her this upset because of what happened to me hits harder than any of Sade's punches did.
Ashley lifts her head to look at my face, taking in the healing injuries with the wide-eyed concern of someone seeing the aftermath of violence for the first time. Her eyes are red and puffy, tears streaming down her cheeks like tiny rivers of worry that have finally found their outlet.
She cups both my cheeks with her small hands, and I manage a smile as I wipe her tears away with my thumb. Her skin is soft and warm, carrying that particular scent of strawberry shampoo and childhood innocence that makes me want to protect her from every terrible thing in the world.
"No need to cry, Ashy. I'll be as good as new soon enough."
"Pr-omise?" she asks between sobs, her voice small and vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tight.
"Yeah. I promise. Then we'll go to Disneyland to celebrate. You've always wanted to go there, right?"
Her face lights up despite the tears, and she nods with a sniff. "Yeah..."
"Well, sweetie, we'll see about that later," Mom intervenes gently, clearly worried I'm making promises that our bank account can't cash.
But I look at her with complete seriousness, feeling that new clarity settle over me like armor. "Don't worry, Mom. From now on, I'll take care of you guys."
The determination in my voice surprises even me. It's not the desperate bravado of a teenager trying to sound tough—it's the quiet confidence of someone who's finally figured out they have the tools to back up their promises. I should probably send Sade Henderson a thank-you card. His psychotic little temper tantrum is directly responsible for whatever happened to my brain in that alley, and I'm planning to use every bit of this new awareness to build a future where my family never has to worry about money, safety, or anything else ever again.
A stable future where we can enjoy life carelessly, without constantly calculating whether we can afford basic necessities or luxuries like Disney vacations.
"Well, well! Seems like you're doing well, Zephyr."
The voice from above makes me look up, and I immediately regret the decision because my brain temporarily forgets how to function properly.
Standing at the top of the stairs is Aunt Kathy, Mom's younger half-sister and the primary reason I've spent the last few years questioning whether it's morally acceptable to find your aunt attractive. She's thirty years old—eight years younger than Mom—with hair dyed a soft crimson color that catches the light like spun copper. Where Mom is 5'8", Kathy towers at 5'10" or maybe even 5'11", with the kind of presence that makes rooms feel smaller just by entering them.
But her most striking feature is her hazel eyes—clear, sparkling, and so intensely focused that looking into them feels like being x-rayed by someone who can see straight through to your soul. Combined with a figure that could make Renaissance sculptors weep with inadequacy, she's the kind of woman who turns heads in grocery stores and makes married men suddenly very interested in whatever she's looking at.
Aunt Kathy was my first crush on the opposite sex, back when I was too young to understand why I kept finding excuses to hang around whenever she visited. Even now, at seventeen and theoretically mature enough to know better, I still get tongue-tied around her like some prepubescent idiot who's never seen a woman before.
My cheeks flush as I smile up at her, trying to look casual while my enhanced brain betrays me by cataloging every detail of how her form-fitting clothes accentuate her figure in all the right places. My gaze roams over her with the kind of obvious appreciation that would be embarrassing if I had any dignity left to lose.
"Well, let's not stand outside more than necessary," Mom says, turning to Ashley with the practical authority of someone who's done this family reunion thing before. "And you—can you get off your brother? He's still recovering."
Ashley pouts with the theatrical disappointment of a teenager who's been told she can't have ice cream for breakfast, but she grudgingly climbs down from our hug.
"Come on, Mom. She missed me. Also, she can hug me whenever and however long she wants," I joke, ruffling Ashley's hair in a way that makes her giggle despite her recent tears.
"Not until you're fully recovered, though," Mom insists, ushering us up the stairs with the determined efficiency of someone herding cats.
"Dinner's almost done," Aunt Kathy chimes in cheerfully as she walks ahead of us.
And that's when my enhanced brain decides to focus on exactly the wrong thing, because watching her walk up those stairs in fitted jeans is like watching poetry in motion, and I have to mentally slap myself before my thoughts wander into territory that would require extensive therapy to unpack.
*Concentrate, Zephyr. Now is not the time.*
I force myself to focus on my surroundings instead of on how Aunt Kathy's presence seems to make the air itself more interesting.
The ground floor of our building is nothing particularly fancy—just a wide lobby with three doors on each side and a staircase at the far end next to an elevator that's been out of order longer than some of my friendships have lasted. We used to live on the top floor, but when the elevator broke down five years ago and the landlord's repair timeline shifted from "next week" to "eventually" to "never," Mom decided to relocate when an apartment on the ground floor became available.
Honestly, the daily trek up and down five flights of stairs was exhausting for all of us, and the move was probably the best decision she made that year.
Our apartment is the last door on the right, and as we step inside with Aunt Kathy locking up behind us, I take a long, deep breath and exhale slowly.
Home sweet home.
I missed this scent—the particular combination of Mom's lavender fabric softener, Ashley's strawberry everything, and that indefinable smell of a place where people actually live instead of just existing. Our apartment is cozy and welcoming in the way that only happens when someone puts real effort into making a house feel like a home. Mom's always made sure everything is clean and well-maintained, turning what could be a cramped space into something that feels comfortable and safe.
We've been living in this building for eleven years now, which means I've spent most of my childhood and all of my teenage years within these walls. Mom wasn't the only one responsible for keeping things nice, either—she made sure Ashley and I took turns doing chores around the apartment, teaching us that maintaining a home is everyone's responsibility, not just hers.
It's a five-room layout: living room, small kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms. Originally, Ashley and I shared the second bedroom, but as we grew older, the single bed became increasingly problematic. By the time we were both in double digits, we couldn't sleep without constantly disturbing each other—arms and legs everywhere, blanket theft, and the occasional elbow to the ribs when someone rolled over wrong.
Mom's bedroom is larger, with a bigger bed, so about three years ago we reorganized: she and Ashley moved in together, and I got my own space. It worked out perfectly, giving me the privacy every teenage boy desperately needs while ensuring Ashley still had the security of sharing a room with Mom.
But now, with Aunt Kathy in the equation, I'm not sure how the sleeping arrangements are going to work. She lives in Ashwood, Ohio, which means she probably flew out here as soon as Mom called with news about my accident. The woman dropped everything and crossed state lines because her nephew got hurt—which is either really sweet or a sign that she was looking for an excuse to visit.
While Aunt Kathy disappears into the kitchen, I glance at the clock on the wall: 7:45 PM.
Ashley and I settle onto the living room couch—a slightly worn but comfortable piece of furniture that's seen more movie nights and homework sessions than I can count. Mom follows Aunt Kathy to help with whatever dinner preparations are happening, leaving me alone with my energetic little sister for the first time in over a week.
"Well, Zeph, what do you want to watch?" Ashley asks, grabbing the remote and powering up our ancient but functional TV.
"Nothing really. Put on whatever you want to watch." I shrug, partly because I'm genuinely fine with anything and partly because watching TV with one eye while the other is sealed shut under bandages isn't exactly an optimal viewing experience.
Ashley surfs through channels with the restless energy of someone who's been given control of the remote and intends to use it. News channels, action movies, reality shows—she flips past them all without pausing, clearly looking for something that meets her mysterious criteria for acceptable entertainment.
She finally stops on Nat Geo Wild, where some documentary about the Amazon rainforest is currently playing. The narrator has that soothing British accent that makes even discussions of predator-prey relationships sound civilized and educational.
"Beats a generic action flick or a news broadcast," I shrug.
"Yep. Nowadays there's nothing much interesting on most channels," Ashley agrees, putting the remote on the armrest and settling comfortably beside me.
She rests her head on my shoulder and gazes intently at the TV screen, where some brilliantly colored bird is doing an elaborate mating dance that probably took millions of years to perfect through evolution.
I wrap my arm around her shoulders and lean my head back against the couch cushions. *I missed this,* I think contentedly.
This is what I've been fighting to get back to—not just being home, but being part of this small family unit that somehow manages to function despite everything the world throws at us. Mom working multiple jobs to keep us afloat, Ashley bringing enough enthusiasm for all of us, and me... well, me trying to figure out how to contribute something meaningful instead of just being another mouth to feed.
But now, with whatever's happened to my brain, maybe I can actually be useful. Maybe I can take some of the pressure off Mom, help Ashley with her schoolwork, contribute to our financial stability instead of being a constant drain on resources.
The documentary shifts to a segment about how indigenous tribes have learned to work with the rainforest ecosystem instead of against it, using traditional knowledge passed down through generations to thrive in one of the world's most challenging environments.
"That's pretty cool," Ashley murmurs against my shoulder. "They know all these things just from living there and paying attention."
"Yeah," I agree, though my enhanced brain is already making connections the old me wouldn't have seen. "It's like they've learned to read patterns that other people can't see. They know which plants are useful, when the weather's going to change, how all the different animals interact with each other."
"Think you could do something like that?" Ashley asks with the kind of casual curiosity that only kids can manage.
I consider the question seriously. "Maybe. Not with rainforests, obviously, but... I don't know. Maybe with other kinds of systems. Like figuring out how things work and finding better ways to do them."
She nods like this makes perfect sense, because at thirteen, the idea that her big brother might have hidden talents isn't unusual—it's just another fact about the world, like the sky being blue or pizza being delicious.
From the kitchen comes the sound of Mom and Aunt Kathy talking quietly while they work on dinner, their voices mixing with the gentle clatter of dishes and the occasional sizzle of something being cooked to perfection. The whole apartment smells like home—familiar, safe, and filled with the kind of love that doesn't need to announce itself because it's just woven into everything.
This is what I'm going to protect. This feeling, this family, this life we've built together despite not having much money or many advantages. Whatever happened to my brain in that alley, whatever new capabilities I might have developed, they're all going to be directed toward making sure Ashley never has to worry about whether we can afford things she needs, and Mom never has to work herself to exhaustion just to keep us housed and fed.
Sade Henderson thought he was destroying me when he and his morons left me unconscious in that alley. Instead, he accidentally gave me the tools I need to build something better than anything I could have imagined before.
I'm going to use every bit of this enhanced intelligence to create a future where my family doesn't just survive—they thrive.
The documentary narrator is now explaining how certain species of ants have developed sophisticated agricultural systems, cultivating fungus gardens to feed their colonies with the kind of complex organization that puts most human bureaucracies to shame.
"See?" Ashley says softly. "Even bugs can figure out how to work smarter instead of harder."
I smile and squeeze her shoulder a little tighter. "Yeah, Ashy. Even bugs."
But as I sit there holding my sister and listening to the familiar sounds of family life happening around me, I can't shake the feeling that I'm standing at the beginning of something much bigger than I understand yet. This enhanced intelligence isn't just going to help me do better on tests or impress teachers—it's going to change everything about how I interact with the world.
The question is: am I ready for what that means?