Jeffrey awoke Tuesday morning and, in a total mental fog, slipped pods in his ears, swiped and tapped three times, and then suddenly realized he was watching a video for the first time in days.

His shoulders shook a little in revulsion. He contemplated flinging his device and its attachments from his person in an epic display to prove he “wasn’t that same guy anymore.”

But then he caught up to himself. He remembered having fallen asleep the night before thinking, All this new power, and I still can’t use it the way I’m supposed to. What a waste!

It seemed Jeffrey 2 so loved to thrive on oh wells and might as wells and all’s well that ends wells, combining and congealing such sentiments to form a sort of lazy ho-hum lethargy, which felt a lot like letting go and giving up or giving in.

Since, after all, he already saw himself not acting perfectly anyway, what harm might a little extra imperfection cause?

The video transitioned to an end-card with some bland, grey call to action . . . something along the lines of Subscribe!, Click!, Buy!, or Follow!.

Then another’s title sequence overtook the first in its wake.

He didn’t click to stop it.

This went on as he carried out a looping pattern any robot could be set to follow from room to room in the house and out to the bus stop.

Once aboard, he sank into his seat. Both big and small vibrations travelled up through his legs and spine, massaging him down into a state close to calm, while lively voices continued taking turns having fun in his ears through the pods.

The scenery out the window was so peacefully mundane and bright, the waves of chatter on the bus so consistent and upbeat, he didn’t even notice himself start to daydream. He failed to register with entering the first stages of a vision in which he saw himself standing at the edge of a long pier peering out at a rugged, windswept sea ravaged by a storm so dark it blackened even distant skies and waters.

Endless waves roared and crashed in utter chaos.

But the storm began to head away from where he stood, clearly moving farther out across the ocean.

Jeffrey watched himself turn to face the shore where a single lit window in a solitary house signaled a burning furnace, as well as probably a warm meal, blankets, and other comforts.

He took a long, slow breath as the bus came to a halt.

He closed the current video and swiped off his device, standing to begin the easy trek to homeroom.

It seemed only moments later, as he sat surrounded by Peck, Colin, Wurtz, and others, all awaiting the start of a new school day, that bells which had somehow lost their shrillness gave way to a somewhat softened barking snap. He heard only a nicely muffled thwang which led to rounds of Finnel’s impossibly mistimed breathing through the intercom.

Every outbreath, once escaped, became a cliffhanger, so that every inbreath to follow brought silent sighs of relief from all those forced to listen (everyone). Some of the inhales got segmented into sections, broken by frightening gaps, where no one knew what might come next, or when . . . whether signs of life or death.

“Good job to… on the... the first line champion of… Yes, yes… Water polo…” Finnel’s voice quarbled and shook, shaking ceiling speakers with it, especially as coughs that ranged from hearty to frail fought to punctuate both the decipherable and indecipherable contents of his morning spiel.

Jeffrey glanced from left to right. Everyone, even Mrs. Racca, who sat facing the class up front, appeared spellbound by the familiar sound. This was something all had simply evolved to tolerate twice per week.

Jeffrey, too, found he wasn’t particularly bothered by the normally sickening rasps and hacks. Today his stomach wasn’t nearly turned by each gross slurping squeak built from an impromptu trill. Every retch and wheeze . . . every gasp and sputter . . . reminded him now of nature. He thought of trees crashing down, and carcasses rotting. He envisioned peek-level salmon leaping above water to win the fight of their life, only to be snatched from the air by lazy grizzlies resigned to just eating and growing fat to last the winter. He saw mountains getting eroded away by tiny, steady drips. And he asked himself whether Finnel’s not-long-for-this-world ways weren’t likewise but a small part of the cosmos. Yes, a difficult part. Not a part Jeffrey felt exactly happy about. But Finnel was what he was, like everything else.

Then in an instant, everything changed. For the last words Jeffrey heard Finnel utter out to the school before a few final choked-back breaths and crashing signoff bangs were: “...Jillian Lunas… my office…”

Dropping at once from all delights of hazy ease, Jeffrey never would have figured out or guessed Gel’s real name to be Jillian. But when he heard the name clamor down amongst the rest of the difficult sounds from above, his focus fell to Gel immediately. It felt like seeing a fellow soldier being infiltrated, bound, and dragged behind enemy lines.

Might there be a way he could reach and talk with her now, beforehand?

No, impossible.

And it wasn’t like their power came with telepathy options or upgrades.

Or, did it? Could it?

He tried with all his worth to bring his awareness over to Gel, wherever she was, but seemed to receive nothing back.

His overall sense was of having just awakened from the sweetest of dreams to find himself stuck in a too-small coffin, pitch-black and surely buried, quickly running out of air.

During his short walk to Hensler’s classroom for morning double math, he craned his neck to see as far as he could down the hall. But he had no idea where Gel’s homeroom even was. For all he knew, her journey to the Mad Doctor’s lair could consist of the tiniest of U-shaped treks from right next door.

He let himself play with the notion of just heading over to Finnel’s, himself, and acting as if he’d been sent. That way, he could at least try to listen in for as long as Madge would tolerate him in her limited space.

But with every step he took in the direction of Hensler and the coming hours of mathematical forgery (duplicating someone else’s work while making only minor changes), the pull to force his legs and feet to change directions broke a little more. Rather than choosing to go aid his teammate partner/mentor in her time of need, he watched himself, detached, continue along his regular path, growing more bitterly disgusted with himself at every step.

Hensler’s strange metamorphosis seemed to still be in effect. For not only was the teacher present again for the beginning of class, but all the day’s problems had been copied up to the board already. Examples like the previous homework had been solved at the left side in black, with new material taking up most of the center (including references to page numbers in green), and today’s homework boxed (also in green) in the upper right-hand corner. It was a sight to spur pure tedium, which knocked the life and wind right out of Jeffrey. He felt an impossible combination of tired, fuzzy weariness mixed with raw-wire apprehension and jolting fear.

He wondered, as he sat and very gradually brought up paper from his bag, what Gel must be going through right at that moment.

Could she be in any pain or danger?

If Finnel really did see everything abnormal that took place in the school, then the last week must have changed the game entirely.

But what even was the doctor’s game? What horrible measures might be taken to restore the order and balance of how things had been before? Could that even be possible?

What if Jeffrey never saw Gel again?

He imagined himself being called to Finnel’s office, and entering to find standing in a line Peck, Ricky, Colin, Sarah, Dom, Wurtz, and Gel, all staring back at him with sick grins carved as if by blades across their faces.

He pictured each failing to fight back cruel bouts of hissing laughter, and then Gel uttering in a low, demonic tone, “Fool! You actually fell for it?! This was all part of the plan. We’re all in on it!”

Of course Finnel emerged next in Jeffrey’s mind. Wrapped in a billowy grey cape, the doctor cackled and croaked, his T-Rex claw hands fumbling with switches and dials to cause a holographic projection of Hunch to appear and hover high above.

And Jeffrey couldn’t keep himself from hearing the fake Hunch thunder, “You’re craaaaaaaaazy! Thaaaaaaaat’s what this has all been desiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigned to shoooooooooow. Weeeeeeeeeeee now have incontrovertible proof, and there’s nooooooooooooo more neeeeeeeeeeed for these games and folly.”

A network of black chains were suddenly wound and clamped around Jeffrey’s limbs and torso, binding him fast in place.

Hunch, Finnel, Gel, and the rest continued to bellow and guffaw so hard, and with such abandon, that nothing . . . no amount of inflicted pain or sudden shock . . . could hold back their evil laughter in the least.

No, they’d die laughing at how hilariously clueless Jeffrey had been to actually believe he was part of something important, something bigger than himself, and something he could care about more than just getting through each day in isolated distraction.

Even though he knew he wasn’t really seeing the hell he imagined (not in the way he and Gel saw things), he let the mental play carry on without attempting to awaken or shake himself free from it.

And looking into the judging eyes of his mind’s version of Gel, he tried to use his own eyes to plead with her: Why? Don’t you care about me even a little?

He wasn’t surprised by her answer, being fully aware he was the one producing it. Yet still her unspoken response brought a wave of cold, steady sadness, which overtook his mix of disinterested lethargy and stressed horror at once . . . her expression communicating back to him only: Oh, now you want someone to care?! Well, we all know the truth! And so do you!

A lightning-bolt shiver cascaded down the length of his spine, shocking him back to the here and now like gunfire. He shot up in his seat, and snapped and snatched himself awake and away from the depths of his waking nightmare, cold sweat spritzing his skin in dots down his legs and arms.

“Check it out! Jeffrey just fell asleep!” Peck chortled reliably from a little too close behind Jeffrey’s ear.

Others joined in Peck’s fun, giggling and snickering along.

Jeffrey didn’t respond.

He looked down at his paper, glad to see it was still blank. For he knew, if he knew anything, that he only automatically, unconsciously drew when his vision ability was in play. So the empty page was like double confirmation that he had not, in fact, been seeing into the true nature of things when picturing Gel’s and Hunch’s/Finnel’s harsh condemnations just now.

As if on perfect cue to ruin Jeffrey’s relief, Hensler sighed from his table upfront where he’d been silently, diligently plodding away on whatever mystery project(s). Looking up at the class with a pained expression, the teacher called in a bewildered voice, “Jeff, go ahead and go to the principal’s office again, ok?”