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Aspenwood into the heart of town, where his grandfather’s practice had sat for more than forty years. The little house stood just outside the square, the bottom floor converted into a doctor’s office that served all of Independence Falls’ citizens.
    It had been his grandfather’s idea for Henry to pursue his medical career, with hopes that one day Henry would return and take over the clinic. Dr. Reginald Pinkerton had hoped that by the time Henry completed his medical doctorate, he would be ready to retire.
    At least, that’s how he had sold the plan to Henry. Medicine had always interested Henry, even as a young child. The majority of his childhood had been spent roaming the clinic, snatching moments of his grandfather’s time between patients and tormenting the women who worked there. Home had never been a welcoming place after the tragedy of his father’s death had worked a terrible change in his mother. The clinic was Henry’s great escape.
    Indeed, Mrs. McClure, who had managed the front desk for most of Henry’s life, was more like a mother than Henry’s actual mother. She had always been the person who had made sure he wasn’t getting into too much trouble, trying to figure out how to use the expensive equipment and worm his way into consultations to give his “professional” opinion. Patrice, the clinic’s sole nurse, had never seemed to find his childhood antics nearly as charming, but she was still a constant friendly presence in Henry’s life. They were both as important to the practice as Dr. Pinkerton himself.
    As Henry entered through the front door that morning, Mrs. McClure called out a cheery, “Hello, dear!”
    “Hi, Mrs. M,” he replied, leaning over the front desk so he could kiss her powdered cheek. Mrs. McClure was in her late sixties, and yet she still got up every morning to “put on her face.”
    She shooed him away with the wave of her hand. “Your charm is wasted here, buster. I still remember the time you caught the flu when you were six and—”
    “Let’s not tell that story again, shall we?” He grimaced. Mrs. McClure was just teasing, but sometimes he worried no one would ever see him as a physician—that he would always be the doctor’s grandson, rather than a doctor himself. “Did you get your insulin shot this morning?”
    Mrs. McClure sighed. “Henry, I’m a grown woman. I can manage my own insulin shot.”
    “That didn’t answer my question.”
    She gave him a pointed look and motioned toward the back. “Your grandfather’s waiting for you.”
    Henry made his way to the back, where a small kitchenette was hidden at the end of the hallway, past the various patient meeting rooms. Dr. Pinkerton was bent over a cup of coffee and the morning paper, hip butted up against the counter as he skimmed the news. He looked up as Henry entered the room, wrinkled face splitting into a grin.
    “Henry!” he said, discarding the paper. “How are you this morning? I checked the appointment book, and it looks like you are going to have a busy day.”
    “Really?” Henry looked back over his shoulder, as if staring at the back of Mrs. McClure’s head would reveal her secrets. “That’s great! Any of the—” He tripped over the words, unsure what to name the people who had revealed themselves to have tapped into some sort of superhuman abilities. “You know. The people who got really, really ill at the beginning of the summer?”
    The smile dropped away. Dr. Pinkerton looked more weathered this way, the evidence of long hours and his recent string of illnesses weighing heavily in the lines of his face. Even though there had only been two serious injuries during the fight—Veronica Clark’s fall into the rapids and the abrasions to June Powell’s neck—the townspeople had been frightened, and there had been a noticeable influx of patients.
    Veronica had survived, and June’s neck had healed, but the damage to the town’s morale would take longer to