“No one is angry with you Nicholas. You’re the hero. Your phone call tip stopped the Simpson boy from shooting up the Thanksgiving Day parade. We just need to know how you knew,” Det. Lou Pallas said.

What if this kid was in on the shooting plot? He’s another loner. Another bullied weirdo. How do we know this kid didn’t turn in his partner? Pallas thought.

Nicholas grimaced sensing the cop’s mistrust behind his friendly smile and plucking the words, “weirdo” and “loner” from the cop’s thoughts. He never asked for this. He didn’t want to be empathic. Feeling others’ feelings was exhausting. It had always been exhausting. Once in high school Nicholas strained from the weight of others’ thoughts and feelings like a choke collar on his throat. Most days he was stoned to get through classes.

Being sober in a room of three people concentrating on him made his head ache. He wanted a dreamless half a bottle of NyQuil sleep. Nicholas needed to be alone. He pushed up his sleeves, folded his arms, and rested his forehead on his forearms. Det. Pallas shared a concerned glance with his partner Det. Mel Sweets and Nicholas’ mother, Rosa.

“You know you can leave at any time. You are not in any trouble. We just want to understand how you knew about Callum Simpson’s plan to shoot into the crowd on Main St. Help us?” Sweets said.

I don’t trust this boy any farther than I can throw him. He’s hiding somthing. We need to go over Simpson’s social media with a fine tooth comb and look for connections with Rios, Sweets thought. Nicholas rubbed his temples.

His mother was doing the rosary in her head. She did that a lot when Nicholas got into trouble. The steady rhythm of her thoughts mixed with the jabs of anxiety made Nicholas feel loved and guilty.

“Nico, where did you get these bruises on your arm? They remind me of my abuela’s pinches when I was naughty in church. She died when I was little but I remember her telling me to do the right thing even when it is hard,” Rosa said.

Nicholas wanted to tell his mom that he always felt Simpson was dangerous. Nicholas wanted to say when he brushed against Simpson during gym class and saw Simpson’s red thoughts he was afraid. He wanted to say his great grandmother Assumpta came to his dreams night after night.

With broken glass on her shoes and blood splattered on her apron, Assumpta came to him shaking him awake with the cries of the soon to be dead. Embarrassed Nicholas pulled down his sleeves. Then he stared over her head.

My baby, dear God, please don’t let them take my baby. What did I do wrong? Rosa thought reaching out to stroke Nicolas’ shoulders.

Tell them you lied about knowing there were guns in my treehouse. Tell them you were pissed when me because I wouldn’t get you any weed. Say you remembered the treehouse from back when we were Boy Scouts together and hoped the people who bust my stash.

Blicking rapidly, Nicholas stiffly repeated the crisp thought thrusted into his head. They believed Nicholas. He could feel their cool relief as they swallowed his lies.

“How did you know?” Nicholas asked once he was alone.

Adults always believe teens are lying. So make it a good one that cops to a little and covers a lot. The thought was crystal clear. A warm friendliness tapped his shoulder.

“Why help me?” Nicholas asked the late Callum Simpson.

Simpson shrugged. I wanted the thoughts to stop. I thought I was crazy. I thought there was no on else like me. By the way, my weed stash is at St. Conception graveyard in a Sanka can tucked behind the saint with the nice boobs.