Three weeks after Hope defeated the prison break echo by inventing revolutionary combined healing magic at age two, life was—weird. Not bad weird. Just weird in the way things get weird when you survive a catastrophe and suddenly have to figure out what normal looks like again.
"Mama, can I go play at the dimensional scar?" Hope's question came over breakfast like she was asking to go to the park instead of the site of near-apocalypse.
"Absolutely not." My automatic response. "The scar is not a playground."
"But I want to check if any new wrinkles formed!" Her protest. "I'm supposed to maintain the healing. Vera said. Regular monitoring and touch-ups."
Regular monitoring and touch-ups. Right. Our two-and-a-half-year-old had ongoing dimensional maintenance responsibilities.
"Vera can monitor." I countered. "You can practice your regular magic. The kind that doesn't involve reality damage."
