I am broken and my mind bleeds. If I’m lucky then no one notices or connects it to me. When my luck deserts me, things usually get violent. I always run first. I never wanted to learn how to fight but my feet were never fast enough. After years of being chased down and beaten, I’ve learned how to fight real dirty.

The train yard was full of damaged cars, connected by shadows and knee-high snow banks. My ragged coat would not be enough, not tonight.

“Whozzer? I can hear you.” It was a man’s slur, weathered by age and alcohol.

I froze. It was too cold to fight and running would leave tracks that could be followed. I concentrated on the wound in my mind, the tunnel where my thoughts escaped. Sometimes that helped. Sometimes.

“Oh, yer one of dem.” He coughed.

A thought wormed it’s way out. One of what?

His voice grew nasty. “A mutant. A witch. A psychic. A telepath. A sender.”

Some of them were names I’d heard just before fists and boots hammered me into unconsciousness. Others were strange. Sender?