You try, you take a deep breath and call up the image of your old math teacher – it’s just like putting on a suit, just like stepping into him, you think.

You can’t.

You shoot off a quick sideways glance to Greg, who is watching you while rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet and also twirling little balls of too-bright fire into the air with little flicks of his index finger.

“Come on, Hobbes, come on, just a little more, a little more.”

You roll your eyes; he was the only one who could get away with uttering the nickname that he coined, with making it a term of endearment even. It made sense to him, that odd, old name from a comic – a friend who could turn into anyone he imagined.

It was easy for him, always has been: calling up his own talent with nothing more than a furrow between his brows, incinerating whole building floors at one go.

Another deep breath. Another image, this time it’s the very boy standing in front of you.

You smile as your skin ripples, shifts, changes.