“Are you kidding me? You weigh maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. What do you think you’re doing walking alone at night?” She noticed Eric looking down at all five feet three inches of her, scowling. “Let me give you a ride home.”

Eric’s radio went off. “Shit. I have to go, Calla, another attack. Call a cab, please.”

“Yeah, sure.”
He hurried away. Calla walked in the opposite direction, towards her house. She took this path three to four days a week on her way home from work. There wasn’t any way she was going to call a cab. 

She heard footsteps closing in behind her. Alarmed, she wrapped her hand around the can of mace in her pocket and picked up her pace. 
 
The footsteps were gone. Had she imagined them? Calla turned her head to look but she was alone. “Get it together, chicken. You’re scaring yourself now.” 

She rounded the corner nearing an alley. A trickle of red blood flowed from it, creeping onto the sidewalk. Calla stopped in front of a pathway as uneasiness washed over her. Fear and ethics battled within her. Ethics won, but her legs felt like lead, and they weren’t moving. She forced herself to take a few steps and spotted a mound lying next to the wall. 
 
After several tense seconds, she tightened her grip on the can of mace and slowly made her way towards the heap on the ground.

This is exactly how all the stupid girls are killed in the movies. They go walking right into danger, and boom, they’re
dead.

Approaching the mound, she trembled. As she moved closer she saw a tanned foot sticking out from the trench coat. Calla bent down, her chest heaving, hands shaking as she reached the foot and gave it a quick shake, but nothing happened. Relax, before you hyperventilate and end up on the ground, too. Breathe, Calla, breathe.

She stood, crept forward, and reached for what she hoped was the head. She knelt down and pulled back the thick trench coat. His head turned to the side, face badly beaten, eyes cracked to reveal a glimmer of the brightest green she had
ever seen. 

“Holy shit!” She jumped back, startled.

The man didn’t move. She bent down again this time reaching for his neck. The pulse was weak. She had already used her gifts twice this evening, and her body still ached from the two previous failures. “Focus. You can do this.” She struggled to turn the man onto his back. When she finally rolled him over there was a knife, with a green hue as if the metal was oxidized, protruding out of his chest.

 “Of course there’s a knife,” Calla murmured to herself. 

“I’m going to try to help you,” she whispered in his ear. She knew she might not be able to save him, but she had to try. If she could pull the knife out in a quick motion she could heal him. She placed her hands around the hilt of the knife and
pulled. Nothing happened. “Maybe if I get some leverage.” 
 
Calla straddled the man, planting one tennis shoe on each side of his limp body. She bent down and wrapped both hands around the hilt and pulled with everything she had. The knife began to move—barely—but it was moving. It felt like pulling a rubber boot stuck in thick mud. After a few more attempts the suction released, and the knife was freed.

She collapsed on his chest and sat up, placing both palms on the bleeding wound. “Please, oh please let this work.”Calla focused on the wound, gathering energy. Then her hands began to glow. Sweat dripped matting blonde hair to her forehead, and her vision began to dim.“I won’t let you die,” she promised.

Then darkness embraced her.