“And with great power…”
“Comes great responsibility,” Miles finished, holding his hand up for Ganke. Ganke slapped his palm in Miles’s, gripped it tight—eye to eye—before Miles turned to the window, shoved it open, camouflaged himself into red brick against blue sky, and climbed out.
Miles crawled along the side of the building before jumping to the ground and running across the campus to the auditorium. Once he got back to the same door he’d followed Mr. Chamberlain into the night before, he bent the steel back just enough to slip inside. Miles came out of camouflage and leaped from the steps down into the tunnel, where the light was swallowed by the tunnel’s darkness, water splashing him. He sprinted through the tunnel like an express train. His brain wouldn’t quit racing—his family name, the suspension, his uncle, his father, his neighborhood, Austin, everyone who came before him, everyone coming after him.
Everyone coming after him.
After a few minutes of flashing through the tunnel, Miles reached the overhead double doors. He listened. He could hear the crickets jumping through the field, an airplane in the sky still miles from passing overhead. But not the sound of grass blades bending, which meant no feet. He pushed the gate open, climbed out, and looked behind him. The fence, higher than most buildings, blocked off the back stone wall of the prison.
He ran toward the house, slipped right back to the window he had peered through the night before. He hunkered down like a soldier waiting on the order to attack. The Warden was there, dressed in trousers and a white dress shirt, sitting in a huge chair, sipping from a mug. The sun shone through the window, filtered through the crystal trinkets in the cabinet against the wall, creating a kaleidoscope of rainbows, which would’ve been a beautiful image under different circumstances. An image meant for an art gallery or a museum.
A white cat came from behind the couch, the color of fresh snow. It leaped onto the couch, cozied up on the leg of the old man, who stroked its fur gently. Miles could hear the cat’s purring, a soft, satisfied rumble, as the cat licked around its own mouth, stretching it into a fang-brandishing yawn. Again, Miles looked on, mesmerized by how sweet it all seemed. A rich man enjoying Sunday morning with his pet cat. Miles had always wanted a pet. Not a cat, though. He preferred dogs, but his father always said having a dog was like having another child, another mouth to feed. And who’s gonna walk it? And what if it bites you, Miles? his father would say. And whenever Miles would try to argue that it wouldn’t bite, his father would say, If it got teeth, it’ll bite.
And that sweet-looking cat had teeth. And so did that seemingly helpless old man, whose weathered body looked like it was papier-maché. He had teeth too. Teeth that apparently had fallen into the mug he was sipping from, because he stuck his finger in and dug one out as if it were a chip of ice. Miles watched as the Warden positioned it back into whatever slot it had slipped from and pressed it with his thumb to his top row, seemingly forcing this disgusting chomper back into his gum line.
Gross. Miles shuddered. And just then the Warden glanced over at the window. Miles was still camouflaged but felt the need to drop below the windowsill anyway. He immediately felt silly, and stood up, knowing that he looked like grass, sky, stone, and gate. The Warden set his cup down on a side table, rose to his feet, the cat jumping from his lap to the floor. He walked over to the window, stood in front of it, gazing out into the field, ogling the prison, the big cement block, the construction on the side of it for expansion. He looked at it as if it were a shiny car, or a child he was proud of—his baby. Miles stood right in front of him, inhaling the age from the Warden’s skin through the glass. It smelled like sweat and soil. But Miles wasn’t concerned, and instead turned his attention to the cat, who he knew could see him. Take it easy, kitty. Take it easy. The cat looked at Miles, its tail waving back and forth the same way it he’d seen a few days before when a similar cat, if not the same cat, was on Neek’s stoop. Suddenly, the cat, who had been glaring at Miles, went into attack mode—back arched, hair spiked, hissing. Calm down, kitty, Miles said to himself, putting a finger to his mouth in a shushing gesture. The Warden took a step back, drawing Miles’s eyes to him. His face hardened into viciousness.
Wait. No way…He can’t.…
But he could. Somehow, he too could see Miles.
The Warden took off running, the cat dashing back behind the couch. Miles took a few steps back, then, like a human missile, torpedoed through the window. The glass exploded into the room, jagged shards everywhere, as Miles went from human missile straight into a forward roll, up onto his feet, and into an attack stride. He reached the Warden before the Warden reached the cat-o’-nine-tails hanging on the wall. Miles grabbed him by the shoulder—a shoulder that felt like a doorknob beneath fabric—whipping the ancient man around.
The Warden, in a fit of panic, took a wild swing, aiming for Miles’s face. Miles backed away, avoiding the punch, but it still created some space between them. Then the Warden squared up, lifted his hands, old-school-style, wheeling his fists around almost as if he was doing some kind of dance. A salsa.
“You fool. You didn’t think I could see you, did you?” he said, still winding up. “But when you’ve lived centuries, you have a different kind of vision. You can see all the things that don’t seem to be really there.” His lip curled up into a snarl, his teeth broken off like wood. “Like opportunity.” Then he came charging at Miles, his fists flying much faster and much harder than Miles expected.
Left, left, duck. Then the Warden surprised Miles by throwing a right uppercut to his chin. He bit down on his tongue. Heard his teeth cut the flesh. Blood filled his mouth, along with a searing sting. Before Miles could recover, the Warden threw two more punches, stiff jabs to Miles’s nose. Miles’s ears rang, and his eyes watered as he was totally caught off guard by the Warden’s speed and strength. Isn’t this man hundreds of years old? Why is he not falling apart? But there was no time to think about any of these things because the Warden cocked his leg up and planted a foot in Miles’s chest, knocking him back against the massive front door. Then the old man came rushing. He threw a flurry of punches, combinations that most boxers couldn’t throw. Miles did his best to block as many as he could before finally, in a state of desperation, he grabbed a lamp off the side table next to him—the shade, red, green, and purple stained glass—and cracked it over the Warden’s head. The glass shattered, bright-colored shards falling like sprinkles on a sundae. Exactly like in Miles’s nightmare.