Strange Highways

if it were a secondary sex characteristic accompanying puberty, manifested in modest ways at first, then increasingly strong and demanding. It was the sort of thing a boy knew must be concealed from adults. For months he even hid it from other children, from his friends, confused and frightened by his own hands, in which the power seemed to be focused. Slowly, however, he revealed himself, did tricks for his friends, performed, became their secret from the grown-up world. But it wasn't long until they rejected him - subtly at first, then with increasing vigor until they beat and kicked him, knocked him in the mud, forced him to drink filthy water, all because of his talent. He could have used his power to protect himself from one of them, perhaps from two, but even he could not protect himself from a gang. For a time he hid his powers again, even from himself. But as the years passed, he learned that he could not conceal and deny the talent without causing himself physical and psychological damage. The urge to use the power was a need stronger than the need for food, for sex, for the breath of life itself. To refuse it was to refuse to live; he lost weight, grew nervous and ill. He was forced to use the power then, but refrained from exhibiting it in front of others. He began to understand that he would always be alone as long as he had the power - not from choice, from necessity. Like athletic agility or a cleverness with words, it could not be successfully hidden in company: It flowered unexpectedly, startling friends. And whenever he was found out, friends were lost, and the consequences were more dangerous than he cared to face. The only sensible life for him was that of a hermit. In the city he naturally gravitated to the life of a vagrant, one of the invisible men of the concrete jungle - unnoticed, friendless, safe.
     "I can understand people being jealous or afraid of you," she said. "Some of them ... but not everyone. I think you're great."
     With gestures, he explained what little he could. Twice he grunted, trying words, without success.
     "You read their minds," she interpreted. "So? I guess everyone has secrets. But to hurt you for it ..." She shook her head sadly. "Well, you don't have to run away from it any longer. Together, we can turn it into a blessing. Us against the world."
     He nodded. But he was deeply sorry to have misled her, for at that moment the mesh occurred. Just like that: Flick! And he knew that this time would be no different from others. When she learned about the mesh, she would panic.
     In the past it had happened only when a relationship had progressed to intimacy. But Annie was special, and this time the mesh occurred even before they made love.
     The next day, Annie spent hours making plans for their future, while he listened. All day he enjoyed planning with her, for he knew that soon there would be no more joy to share, none at all, nothing. The mesh made joy impossible.
     After dinner, as they lay on the bed holding hands, the trouble began just as he had known it would. She was quiet, thinking, and then she said, "Have you been reading my mind today?"
     It was useless to lie. He nodded.
     "Very much?"
      Yes.
     She said, "You know everything before I say it."
     He waited - cold and frightened.
     "Have you been reading my mind all day long?"
     He nodded.
     She frowned and spoke firmly this time: "I want you to stop it. Have you stopped?"
      Yes.
     She sat up, let go of his hand, and looked closely at him. "But you haven't. I can almost feel you inside there, watching me."
     He dared not respond.
     She took his hand again. "Don't you understand? I feel silly, rambling on about things you've already seen in my head. I feel like an idiot hanging out with a genius."
     He tried to calm her and to change the subject. He croaked at her like a magic frog with pretensions to princeship but then resorted again to gestures.
     She said, "If we both had the gift ... But this one-way thing makes me feel ... inadequate. Worse than that. I don't much like it." She waited. Then: "Have you stopped?"
      Yes.
     "You're lying, aren't you? I feel ... yeah ... I'm sure I can feel you ... ." Then the terrible realization came to her, and she drew away from him. " Can you stop reading my mind?"
     He couldn't