“Thanks Will,” called Matt, as the teleporter gave the two of them a casual salute with his un‑lead-barriered arm before disappearing in a waft of sulphur. They stood there for a moment at the end of Matt’s street, ankle-deep in freshly fallen snow.

“Well, let’s get to it,” he said, after a moment’s awkward silence. He forced Jane a smile, but the empath just stood sour-faced with her hands in her pockets, the whiteness of her cheeks against the frozen backdrop bringing out the colour of her eyes. “My house is down that way.”

“Right,” she grunted. They set off side-by-side in silence.

“Are you cold?” Matt asked after a hundred feet or so. His down jacket was fantastically warm, but Jane was only wearing her normal hoodie, which upon closer inspection had several blackened holes in it. Matt also couldn’t imagine her worn-out sneakers did a great job of keeping snow out.

“I’m fine,” Jane muttered. Her arms had migrated from her pockets to across her chest.

“You could always set yourself on fire,” Matt suggested, “Warm you up, make you feel more at home.”

“Ha-ha,” Jane laughed without any humour. They walked in silence for another block.

“Is your Dad coming?” Matt asked eventually, as the footpath and the houses lining it took a slight turn.

“Maybe,” replied Jane stiffly, arms still locked across her chest. In truth she hadn’t told her father anything. Matt glanced sideways at her, seeming to sense the deception.

“Well, I think Mum might’ve called him from the phonebook. You know, so he has the right address.”

“Great,” grumbled Jane, seeing an already bad idea taking a turn for the worse.

They walked some more.

“Just so we’re clear,” she asked, “Did you tell your parents about Albania?”

“No,” Matt replied, “And I’m not going to. I’ve got enough to worry about without adding them to it. Besides, I signed an NDA.”

Jane grunted. Winters had made her sign one too.

They kept walking.

“That’s us,” Matt said, pointing out his house as it came into view. The snow had the shrubs in the garden looking a little worse for wear, but someone – Matt presumed Jonas – had cleared the driveway to reveal the flagstones underneath. Jane looked on blankly as they approached.

“Nice house,” she said, not sarcastically but without any warmth.

“Thanks,” replied Matt, who’d settle for what he could get. They reached the front lawn and made their way to the porch. At the front steps, Matt noticed Jane was hanging back.

“It’s okay,” he assured her, walking backwards and grabbing her by the wrist. Jane flinched at his touch. “They won’t bite.” He started once more doggedly forward, with Jane in tow. The empath resisted for a moment before giving up and letting herself be pulled to the front door.

“Powerless freak,” she muttered under her breath, the skin-to-skin contact feeling solely like cold fingers.

“Shut up,” hissed Matt, “None of that.” His free hand rang the doorbell. From inside there came the sound of movement, and the faux-clairvoyant dropped his grip as something ran scrambling and yelping towards the door.

The door swung open. “Woogie!” Matt cried, falling to his knees to hug the bounding, licking golden retriever, who launched itself into his arms, “Oooh, que paso perrito mio, te extrañado.” The dog wriggled around, trying to get a clear lick at his face.

“Woogie?” asked Jane, raising her eyebrows.

“Sarah named him, we drew straws,” said Matt, rising from the over-enthusiastic mutt to hug his father, who’d opened the door from down the hallway. “Happy Thanksgiving Dad.”

“Happy Thanksgiving Matty,” smiled Michael Callaghan, who was wearing a turkey-patterned apron, “So good to see you.” He released his son and turned still smiling to the empath. “And you must be Jane. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

“Hi,” said Jane awkwardly. The man’s eyes fell to the way her arms were locked across her chest.

“You must be cold, come in, come in, get warm,” he proclaimed, ushering them inside. Matt bent and gave Woogie another scratch behind the ears then followed his father.

“Come on,” he hissed at Jane’s obvious reluctance. The empath was so uncomfortable she couldn’t even muster a scowl. They crossed the threshold.

“Shoes off!” a woman’s voice echoed from somewhere inside, and Kathryn Callaghan’s head poked out from the kitchen. “Hi Jane, lovely to meet you. Just so you don’t get snow on the rug.” Matt’s mother’s head retreated out of view. Matt chuckled to himself and Jane followed his lead in bending down and removing their boots, discretely manoeuvring her socks while doing so to try and hide the holes. Her legs felt unusually stiff and jumpy – she didn’t know why she was so nervous.

They walked through to the kitchen, where Matt greeted his mother, a slim yet intimidating woman with long brown curls, also wearing an apron, with a one-armed hug. “Hey Mom,” he grinned, “This is Jane.”

“Three months,” Kathryn Callaghan lamented, shaking her head at Jane with a look of mock despair, “Almost three months he’s been gone, and the dog gets more of a welcome than me.” Her face split into a warm smile. “It’s lovely to meet you Jane.”

“Hi,” Jane said awkwardly, wondering if that was the only word she was going to be able to say all afternoon.

From there, it was an endless parade of family, relatives and assorted friends, coming up one after the other to affectionately welcome Matt and erratically acknowledge Jane. Several of Matt’s aunts and uncles simply grunted and glowered at her, which Jane didn’t take too personally, and his grandmother, having kissed her grandson on the cheek, stated primly that she was “welcome, so long as you behave yourself.” Matt’s younger brother, obviously wanting to be edgy, skipped greeting either of them to launch into a loaded interrogation about the Black Death, which earnt him a telekinetic slap to the back of the head by his father. Matt’s little sister, on the other hand, ran full pelt into her brother’s arms, then promptly disentangled herself from the hug and starting tugging on the bottom of Jane’s hoodie.

“I’m not supposed to ask about the ‘E’ on your face,” she informed her, little hands rocking behind her back. Then after a moment’s contemplation added, “Did it hurt?”

“Yes,” replied Jane.

“Does it hurt now?”

“No.”

“You’re tall for a girl.”

“Thanks?”

“Can I have a piggyback?”

“Jane, how about you come in here and help me with the potatoes,” Kathryn Callaghan called, leaning her head out of the kitchen and rescuing the empath from further discomfort. She smiled as Jane entered, seeing the shell-shocked look on her face.

“Just try and relax sweetie. We’re a noisy bunch. Here, are you any good with a peeler? Hope you’re not too hungry, dinner’s a while off.”

Peeling wasn’t one of Jane’s talents but she picked it up soon enough, moving onto washing, dicing and greasing once it was done. To her relief, Thanksgiving dinner needed significant preparation, and Matt’s mother always seemed to have something else Jane could help with, keeping the empath occupied and sparing her from the gauntlet of familial conversation taking place in the living room. The doorbell rang and rang as more and more people arrived, and the noise of merry greetings wafted through to the kitchen. Matt ducked his head in once or twice, maybe to check if Jane was alright, but a short, funny look from his mother both times had him retreating back into the larger rabble where Jane could hear him fielding endless questions about the Legion, Morningstar and Captain Dawn.

“Did your Dad say what time he was coming?” Mrs Callaghan asked, once the vegetables were all prepared and baking away in the oven.

“I don’t know,” Jane mumbled, running a scrubbing brush clumsily over a chopping board. It was technically the truth.

“Hmm,” replied Mrs Callaghan, sounding unconvinced and seeming, like her son, to have a knack for perceiving technicalities.

Finally there was nothing more to be done in the kitchen, so Mrs Callaghan sent Jane back out into the living room to be metaphorically eaten alive. She endured ten excruciating minutes of talking about fly-fishing with a friend of Mr Callaghan’s who seemed allergic to eye contact before being cornered by that little rat Jonas, who wanted to know if she’d ever killed someone.

“Not that anyone’s been able to prove,” Matt interjected, hearing the conversation and siding over with a deadpan expression. He shot Jane a significant look. “But there have been… disappearances. People that annoyed her. Annoying people.”

“Nosy people,” added Jane, picking up what Matt was putting down.

“People who asked too many questions.”

“Young boys, mostly.”

“They just disappear.”

“No one’s ever found their bodies.”

“But it’s not like she can make acid and just, you know, dissolve people.”

“Oh wait,” Jane laughed, then immediately stopped laughing and stared the kid straight in the eye, “That’s right. I’m an empath. I can do anything.”

Jonas laughed uncertainly, looking nervously from one to the other. “You guys are stupid,” he said, but he moved hurriedly away regardless. At the sight of his worried backwards glances, Jane found herself genuinely chuckling.

“Food’s ready!” announced Mrs Callaghan, and there was a general rumbling of approval as everyone moved into the dining room, where the normal table had been buttressed by two folding ones to create a long, uneven surface running the length of the room, providing an unbroken view out the sliding doors and into the snow-soaked garden beyond. Jane ended up seated down one end with a spare space opposite her, while Matt sat a few places over. One by one, dishes of potatoes and gravy, peas and carrots, roast parsnips, lasagne, salads, bread and finally a gigantic turkey the size of her torso were telekinetically floated out of the kitchen by Mr Callaghan and one of Matt’s cousins. Once everything was on the table and everybody was seated, Matt’s Dad said a short grace, while his grandmother turned her hand to metal and sharpened the carving knife on her fingers.

“Dig in,” ordered Mrs Callaghan, and so the dishes were passed around for everyone to fill their plates. Jane held back at first, but ended up going back for seconds and then thirds from the irresistibly delicious heap of turkey. Conversation buzzed around her and despite a few underhand glances across the table for the most part Jane managed to stay politely uninvolved. She began to suspect that the Callaghans might have forewarned their guests about her, for which Jane found herself feeling a deep surge of gratitude. This wasn’t too bad. She could just sit here, full and warm, eating good food while watching snow fall in the yard and not having to talk to anyone.