The quarter clinked against the return slot. A blue outline on the coin stopped it midway after passing a checkpoint and shot back out into Oliver's hand.

  "Got you," he whispered.

  The spinning of a single dryer was enough to drown out the sound of any coin clinking in the insides of the machine. At 4 am, there were only a couple of people left inside at this late hour. Good thing about this world was that people minded their own business and no one asked why a 12 year old kid was alone at this hour.

  Oliver floated the quarter on his palm. The edges were already smoothened out. Who knows how many times he used it in the past couple of weeks to get it this worn out. This world was for suckers, leaving out the good stuff unattended. Ripe for the taking, I say.

  Slowly insert the coin into the slot. Once the click registers, pull it back out. That was the trick he learned after he accidentally didn't want to lose the quarter. Putting it into a vending machine, he got a bag of chips out of it too. But this time, the trick was used to get his clothes cleaned and dried after nabbing them from the donation box back at Church and King.

  The washing machine filled with water after it had made clug clug sounds. It turned gray right away, and the soap he got from a different vending machine started to work its magic.

  Oliver sat on a plastic chair, his legs hanging above the dirty floor. His duct taped shoes too big for his feet swung back and forth. The left sole was coming loose again, and there weren't any vending machines that could pump out duct tape.

  His stomach growled, but he ignored it. An empty stomach was something he'd gotten used to already in the world he came from. Thinking about it now, it had already been a couple of months since he arrived.

  The square had been packed with people. Market day in the capital always brought the crowds, the noise, the opportunities. He'd been smaller then, thinner, if that was possible. Seven years old and already masterful at separating people from their coins.

  "Thief!" The merchant's voice had cut through the crowd. "Stop that boy!"

  But Oliver had already disappeared, slipping between legs and carts, three silver pieces tight in his grasp. He hadn't touched them. Didn't need to. The coins had flown from the merchant's purse to his hand with nothing but a thought and a slight pressure behind his eyes.

  That night, he'd eaten better than he had in weeks. The next morning, he woke up in a strange world with carriages that moved without an animal.

  That was before. This was now. Earth. People here said it was 2051. Different world, same problems. You needed money to live and had to stay invisible to survive.

  He learned that lesson fast.

  The washing machine spun his clothes. Oliver watched them tumble. His life ran in a similar loop. Steal, eat, sleep, and repeat. Just like back home. Only different thing was, they had something they called 'electricity' in this world.

  He pulled his backpack closer. Inside, two granola bars from a corner store, a water bottle, a broken in half butter knife, and $37 in coins and bills. Everything he owned.

  The dryer came next. Slowly, he set the quarter in. Clink. Pulled back out after it had registered. For months, he had hit different laundromats across the city. Never the same place twice in a week. That's what old Tomtom always told him, to never hit the same stall twice. That's how he stayed safe.

  The door chimed open and two men came in with garbage bags of clothes. The tall one glanced at Oliver. The short one kept looking his way.

  Be cool and casual, Oliver. You're just a kid doing laundry. This world had soft idiots, pulling their punches. They'd never truly hurt a child.

  The short man walked over with coffee. "Kinda late for a kid to be doing laundry, ain't it?"

  "Mom works nights."

  "That so?" The man sipped his coffee. "She know you're here?"

  "Yep."

  "Funny thing." The man leaned on a dryer. "My buddy runs this place. Says the machines been acting up. Money going in, but not staying in, if you know what I mean."

  "Sounds like the machines are broken."

  The tall man joined them. "Thing is, kid, the cameras show something interesting. Coins going in, then coming right back out. But only when certain people use the machines."

  "Maybe they're lucky." Oliver stood, grabbing his backpack and opening the dryer to take his damp clothes out.

  The short man put his hand on Oliver's shoulder. "Empty your pockets, kid."

  "No."

  "What you got in there, huh? Some kinda magnet? Some trick device?"

  Oliver tried to step away. "I need to go. Mom's probably looking for me."

  The tall man blocked him. "Not until you tell us how you're doing it."

  "I'm not doing anything."

  "Bullshit!" The short man gripped tighter. "You think you can come in here, rip off honest businesses while the rest of us pay? What makes you so special, huh?"

  Oliver felt the initial pressure building behind his eyes. It'd be so easy to just throw these men across the room. Just a simple nudge with his telekinesis.

  Though that would expose him. Earth people feared what they didn't understand. They put kids like him in labs. Cut them open. Studied and experimented on them while they'd still be awake to see the insides of their guts.

  Just ignore that old man's advice, Oliver. Who would ever believe these kinds of thugs that picked on kids? Yet he couldn't do it. Fucking hell, old Tomtom.

  That wasn't him. Besides, these Earthers are soft. At least that's what he told himself. Do it once, and the next time comes easier. Then he might just become the monster himself.

  "Let me go," Oliver said.

  "Not until you show us your trick," the tall man said. "We want in."

  "There's no trick."

  The first punch caught him off guard. Knuckles hit his cheekbone and sent him into the machines. The metal edge cut into his back.

  "Don't like sharing, huh?" The short man came closer. "Selfish little shit."

  Oliver tasted blood from where his teeth cut his cheek. He spat on the floor, leaving a red spot on the white tile.

  The next few minutes blurred. Fists and boots. Ribs and boots. Stomach and boots. All the same pain. The men weren't trying to kill him, though. Just teaching him a lesson. Adults against one kid. Yeah, right.

  As expected. Soft idiots. Compared to gangs back at home. Those ones would break your arms if you even tried to look their way. These men from this world? Completely soft.

  Still though, after they left, he was sore all over. Bruises everywhere.

  He lay there for 10 minutes, breathing through the pain. Then he pushed himself up inch by inch. His left eye was swelling shut. Blood dripped from his nose onto his shirt. One rib might be cracked.

  He'd had worse.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Oliver limped to the dryer where his clothes tumbled, now dry. He took them out and stuffed them in his backpack. He found a quarter in his pocket. The same one he'd started with.

  He flipped it with his fingers, caught it with his mind, let it hover before dropping it back into his palm.

  The laundromat door opened. Oliver got ready to run or fight.

  A woman came in with a rolling basket. She glanced at Oliver's beat-up face, then quickly looked away. Adults in this world were good at not seeing problems they didn't want to deal with.

  Oliver put on his backpack. He headed out of the laundromat, the cold air hitting his swollen face numbed the pain. Sirens could be heard from far away.

  Three days later, Oliver was back at the same laundromat. Different time, different clothes, same dirty backpack. His face was still purple and bruised.

  He put a quarter in the washing machine, let it register, and pulled it out back.

  The machine filled with water anyway.

  Oliver smiled despite his cut lip. The men who beat him thought they'd taught him to stay away. They didn't get that pain was just part of survival. You took hits, got back up, and kept going.

  Trust and weakness killed you. Letting people know what you could do killed you. Or worse. It could get you locked in a government lab while scientists studied how a kid could move things with his mind.

  Pushing open the bathroom door, the beat up purple and bruised face greeted him in the mirror. The harsh fluorescent light made it look even worse.

  "Shit," he touched his swollen eye.

  He turned on cold water and lightly dabbed his wounds. It stung but would be helpful for the swelling. He used paper towels to dry his face. The bruise on his ribs hurt when he twisted to check it. Nasty purple, black, and blue colours all over where they'd laid their foot in.

  Oliver pulled his shirt down and leaned on the sink. He'd gotten sloppy. Too comfortable. Breaking patterns was how you stayed alive.

  A crash outside caught his attention. Then men shouting angrily at something or someone.

  "Get back here, you little bitch!"

  "Someone grab her! Don't let her get away!"

  Not his problem. He grabbed his backpack, looking to the back exit.

  The front door opened, banging itself against the washer beside it. Oliver saw a girl run in through the crack of the bathroom door. She looked probably around his age, dark hair. She looked scared, and her arms were bruised.

  Three adult men followed her in.

  "Nowhere to run now," the tallest one said.

  The girl backed up, hitting the washing machine behind her. "I don't have it."

  "I saw you take it. Hand it over, and maybe we only rough you up a little."

  Oliver held his backpack strap tight. Not his problem, he repeated. The smart move was to walk away.

  The girl looked around for an escape. For a second, she made eye contact with Oliver through the crack of the door. Her face was thin, malnourished, or at least she didn't eat enough. She knew hunger, same as him. She looked like she was in the same situation.

  "Fuck," Oliver whispered. He was going to regret this. Might as well get his money's worth.

  He dropped his backpack and pushed the door open.

  "Hey!" he called out. "She with you guys?"

  The men turned. The girl stared at him, tears welling up.

  "Beat it, kid," the shorter one said. "This ain't your business."

  Oliver took a few steps closer. "Just wondering. 'Cause if she's not with you, then maybe, just maybe, you know? She's with me."

  The tallest man laughed. "Look at this hero. What are you, twelve? Get lost before you get hurt."

  "I'm heading out anyway," Oliver said, looking at the girl. "Come on. Let's go."

  The girl hesitated, then moved toward him. The man with the knife blocked her.

  "She's not going anywhere until she gives us what she took."

  "I don't see her holding anything," Ollie said.

  "In her pocket, dipshit." The third man stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "Walk away, kid."

  Oliver sighed dramatically. "Can't do that. Mom would kill me if I came home without my sister."

  "Your sister, huh?" The tall one looked between them. "You don't look alike."

  "Different dads."

  The shorter one pulled out a knife and grabbed the girl's arm. She yelped.

  "I'm done talking. Empty your fucking pockets!"

  Oliver charged and slammed his shoulder into the man's side. The knife fell to the floor.

  The girl broke free and backed away.

  Pain hit Oliver's jaw where a purple bruise was. He staggered back, forcing his legs to stay upright.

  "You just made a big mistake, kid."

  Oliver spat blood. "Not the first time this week."

  The next few minutes were all fists at his face and body. Oliver didn't fight back much. Just enough to keep their focus on him instead of the girl. The trick was to roll with the punches, protect your head, and stay awake. Again, all of the men in this world pulled their punches.

  While they beat him, Oliver focused on something else. The pressure behind his eyes grew as he worked on their back pockets. Three wallets slid out and floated behind the men while they were busy hitting him.

  The wallets drifted to the dryers and slipped behind one of the machines.

  A man kicked him hard in the stomach, knocking out the air from him. He fell to his knees.

  "Stop!" the girl shouted. She threw something at them. "Here, take it!"

  The tall man picked it up and nodded to his friends. He looked down at Oliver. "We're done here. Should've done that in the first place. Keep your hands to yourself next time."

  They left. The girl stayed.

  Oliver got to his feet, one arm around his ribs. "You should go. They might come back."

  Instead, she helped him to a chair. "Why would you do that for a stranger?"

  Oliver winced at the pain as he felt his ribs. "Dunno."

  "That was stupid."

  "Yeah, well. I'm stupid."

  She looked at his face. "You already had bruises on your face before they beat you up. What's your deal?"

  "No deal. Just bad luck. You were bad luck."

  The girl went inside to the bathroom and came back out. She dabbed his wounds with cold wet paper towels.

  "Thanks," he muttered.

  "I'll get more," she went back to the bathroom.

  When she wasn't looking, Oliver moved his fingers and willed the wallets to move. They floated out and straight into his backpack.

  "I'm Cassandra," she suddenly said behind him. "But you can call me Cassie."

  "Oliver."

  "Ollie," she said, nodding.

  "No. Oliver."

  "I like Ollie better."

  "Good for you."

  Cassie smiled. "Your sister, huh?"

  "Had to tell them something."

  "You really should've minded your own business."

  "Probably."

  "How old are you?"

  "Twelve."

  "Fourteen here. So I'm older than you, huh."

  "What of it?" Oliver asked.

  "Dunno." She crossed her arms. "So what now?"

  Good question. He wanted to count his loot as soon as possible.

  "Now we pretend we don't know each other and go on about our lives," he said.

  Cassie pouted. "What? That's it? You jump in to save me, get your ass kicked, then just walk away?"

  "That was the plan, yeah."

  "You're weird."

  "Says the girl being chased by men with knives."

  "Fair point." She looked at the door. "They might be waiting outside."

  "Well, let's go and see." Oliver stood up, ignoring the sore thighs almost buckling. He grabbed his backpack and put it back on. "Come on."

  Cassie followed. "Ok, Ollie."

  He grumbled again, "It's Oliver."

  "Sure it is."

  They went outside. The street was empty, except for the parallel parked cars. One even had a broken window.

  They walked in silence for a block. Oliver kept looking around, checking left and right.

  "So," Cassie said. "You live around here?"

  "No."

  "Very chatty, aren't you?"

  Oliver side-eyed her. "You always talk this much to strangers who get beat up for you?"

  "Only the cute ones."

  That surprised him. "I'm not cute. I'm a mess."

  "A cute mess."

  "You're weird."

  "You're weirder."

  They turned a corner onto a darker street with fewer lights.

  "What was that thing you gave back to them?" Oliver asked.

  Cassie looked up, thinking. "Nothing important."

  "Must've been something important."

  "I dunno. I found it on the ground and then they chased me."

  Oliver sighed. "Was it worth it?"

  "If they chased me for it, it must've been worth a lot."

  "Fair point."

  They walked another block in silence. Oliver's ribs hurt with each step. His new bruises on top of the old ones made moving anything annoyingly painful.

  "You hungry?" Cassie asked.

  He was always hungry. "I can manage."

  "That's not what I asked."

  "Then yeah, I could eat."

  Cassie pointed ahead. "I know a place. The cook gives me leftovers sometimes."

  Oliver hesitated. Food meant more time with this girl. Time meant attachment. Attachment was dangerous. Suddenly, his stomach growled.

  "Lead the way."

  Cassie smiled. A real smile this time, not the guarded one from before. It changed her whole face, made her look younger and less tough.