Altered Children

Shortly after seven o’clock on a rainy Friday evening in mid-January 2026, Tom Wallace, his sister and his parents entered the Mancusso Art Gallery in Virginia Beach. The gallery was more crowded than usual this evening because of the advertisements the gallery’s owner had placed in the local newspapers over the previous week. The gallery was highlighting works of three Virginia Beach area artists, including three of Tom’s original oils and six of his watercolors.

His combination of neo-impressionism and surrealism had received ardent reviews in numerous local papers, as well as in the Washington Post, during the early months of his seventh year. As a result, there was a growing demand for his art.

Tom gawked at the group in front of his exhibit. “Wow! I didn’t think so many people would like my stuff.”

His parents held each of Tom’s hands. His sister, Laura, was close by their mother. They stood transfixed by the crush of people standing around the display of Tom’s art. The agent they had hired two months ago was with them. He was a short, well-dressed man. Earlier, Laura told her family she thought his bearded, round face, bushy mustache and thick eyebrows made him look like a teddy bear.

“People are drawn to the symbolism of life, death, space, and time reflected in Tom’s art,” their agent told them.

“Thanks for arranging to have a run of limited edition prints made of these paintings,” Mack said.

“Yes, and thank you for those excellent brochures,” Roberta added.

“You’re welcome,” the agent replied. “The prints will be carried by nine galleries on the East Coast soon. Eventually they’ll go national.”

“What will the prints sell for?” Mack asked.

“Pricing depends on the sales of these originals,” the agent answered. “The recent articles in the newspapers should create additional demand.”

By eight o’clock, two of Tom’s watercolors and an oil had “SOLD” signs on them. The prices ranged from two thousand dollars for a watercolor to six thousand for the oil.

“I’m totally flabbergasted by those prices,” Mack declared, as the family observed people working their way through the gallery and stopping in front of Tom’s art display.

“Though unusual, such prices are not unprecedented,” their agent noted. “Alexandra Nikita had an international reputation by the time she was ten or eleven years old back in the late nineteen nineties. Prints of her paintings sold for several hundred to well over a thousand dollars each back then, and you couldn’t touch one of her originals for less than fifteen or twenty thousand, a fraction of their current prices.”

JoAnn DeVry, PhD, the director of the Creative Learning School Tom and Laura attended, had entered fifteen minutes earlier. She meandered over to Wallaces. “This is a terrific showing,” she said. “Tom’s paintings are fascinating.”

“I think your encouragement helped tremendously,” Roberta replied.

“Thanks a lot, Dr. DeVry,” Tom added. “I’m glad you like them.”

Mack felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around. “Well I’ll be darned!” he announced to the slightly rounded, blond-haired naval officer standing next to him. “What’s it been . . . close to two years now?”

“That’s about right, Mack,” the officer answered.

Mack introduced the officer to his family and their agent. He and the officer stepped aside, while the others continued to converse.

“What have you been up to all this time?” the officer asked.

“I’ve been Deputy Intelligence Officer at Atlantic Fleet since September 2024,” Mack replied. “Now I’m on the list for promotion to captain. What about you?”

“I’ve been off at Gitmo for the last year. Hush, hush, you know. I’ll be at Norfolk for the next couple weeks waiting for reassignment, so I’ll probably see you around.”

As they chatted, the officer saw Mack’s family gaping at the people gathered around Tom’s display. “I noticed the name on those paintings,” the officer said, pointing to where Tom’s paintings hung. “Did your son do them?”

Mack nodded. “Yes. What do you think?”

“Damn, they’re good. I really like them. Just wish I could afford one. But, on an officer’s pay . . . well, you know. Hey, I’ve got to get going. I’ll call you and let’s have lunch.”

“Sure enough,” Mack said. “See you soon.”

As soon as he rejoined his family, Laura asked, “Dad, when are we going to leave. I’m getting bored. I like Tom’s stuff, but I see it all the time and I’m tired of looking at ’em.”

“Sorry, Sweetie, but we need to be here until the gallery closes,” Mack answered.

“Do I have to come here again tomorrow?”

Roberta shook her head. “No. We’ll arrange for you to be with one of your girlfriends.”

JoAnn glanced around furtively and then led the Wallace family to an unoccupied side room while the agent left to confer with the gallery’s owner. She flicked on the lights and shut the door. “Karen Pacheco is flying down from Rochester tomorrow to spend the afternoon with me. She’s put together a process for assisting children like Tom, and their families, deal with the stress often associated with their developing paranormal abilities. Let me know if you want to talk with her before she flies out at seven o’clock.”

Dorothy took JoAnn DeVry’s hand. “Thank you for all you’ve done for Tom, and the rest of us. We appreciate everything.”

“It’s I who should thank you and Mack for the opportunity to be involved in this amazing group. I’ve met so many delightful and interesting people. I hope I can contribute enough to justify your confidence in me.”

After JoAnn departed, the Wallaces spoke with patrons until it was time to close the gallery. Finally, to Laura’s relief, they said goodbye to Tom’s agent and the gallery’s owner and went home.

Saturday morning, Tom was still excited from his art show of the previous evening, and looking forward to the exhibition scheduled for later in the afternoon. He was riding his bicycle on the sidewalk near his apartment, on his way to see a friend around the corner.

Two neighborhood bullies stepped in front of him and blocked his path. A boy with straw-colored, curly hair and a wide mouth, was his size and about his age—seven. The second boy was a year older and much larger than Tom. He had crooked teeth, a flat nose, and a husky voice. They were always starting fights, and taking money and toys from kids. Tom knew exactly what to expect.

The larger bully stopped Tom and held onto the handlebars, hovering over him like a vulture. “Do ya have any money on ya, kid, huh?”

“What d’ ya have?” The smaller one said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

Tom jutted out his chin in a false show of bravado. “Leave me alone and let me go. I don’t want to fight you, but I will if I hafta.” He cleared his mind and focused all his energy into one unspoken command, “Let me go, let me go, let me go.”

“Maybe we oughta take his bike, if he don’t have any dough,” the smaller bully threatened.

The larger one gave Tom an uncertain look. “Yeah, . . . maybe.”

“Let me go, let me go,” Tom thought with all his might, glaring into the larger bully’s eyes.

“No, let’s just let him go,” the larger bully urged the smaller one.

“What d’ya mean ‘let him go’?” the smaller bully asked.

The larger bully released his hold on Tom’s handlebars, stepped aside and dragged the smaller bully away by his arm. “Just what I said! Let him go.”

Tom rode away quickly. What happened there? he thought. Did he do what I wanted because I told him to do it by mind-talk? Hmm, I’m going to have to try this again.

Seven-year-old Yuriko Nishikawa graduated with honors from high school in June 2026. During the previous year, she’d gained a lot of control over her paranormal abilities and no longer had outbursts upon being surprised by voices in her mind—regardless how strong the voice seemed. Yuriko could selectively listen telepathically to conversations among people she knew, and frequently communicated mentally with another Japanese altered child she had met three months earlier.

The capacity to initiate telepathic dialogue with anyone with whom she was not acquainted still mostly eluded her. But she’d established a vague mental connection with a few foreign children. It was good enough to afford them a rudimentary level of communication. Yuriko felt drawn to one child in particular—the images she was getting made her think it might be one of the boys in America she would soon be meeting.

Izumi and Yuriko met with the artistic agent the Tokyo Symphony Orchestra’s music director had recommended one more time and picked up their airline tickets and hotel reservations, as well as a credit card for incidentals. They left for Los Angeles on Monday, the twenty-second of June. This would give them a chance to acclimate to the seven hour time difference, rest from the twelve hour flight, and allow Yuriko sufficient time to prepare in the practice room in the basement of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion auditorium.

Los Angeles and Denver music critics gave Yuriko’s performances rave reviews. Her third appearance was with the Utah Symphony in Abravanel Hall, located in downtown Salt Lake City. Yuriko and her mother had a room at the Inn at Temple Square, located on the opposite side of West Temple Street from Abravanel Hall and across tree-lined South Temple Street from the majestic Mormon Temple where the Mormon Tabernacle Choir performed.

They went directly to the hotel, checked in and immediately headed across the street to the auditorium. Yuriko met with the stage manager who instructed her to select the piano on which she would perform. She tried out the two Steinway grand pianos and found the Berlin Steinway had somewhat better tone but the keyboard of the New York Steinway had a smoother, lighter touch. She tried them a second time and selected the New York Steinway.

Izumi and Yuriko left the hall and went shopping. Izumi needed a pair of comfortable shoes and they both wanted to get souvenirs. They found everything they wanted next door to their hotel at the seven-floor Crossroads Mall, one of the largest downtown covered malls in the United States.

Ramaraju Gupta had received his doctorate in psychology in 2023 and was now an associate professor at the University of Washington. He had given Yuriko’s schedule to the parents of an altered child, Sarah, who lived in Sandy, sixteen miles south of Salt Lake City, and arranged for three complimentary tickets to Yuriko’s matinee performance on Sunday, July 12.

Sarah Alonso’s father drove from their home almost five thousand feet above the valley floor at the base of the Wasatch Mountains, took State Street past the original Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant, then wended their way to West Temple where they parked in the underground garage at the Crossroads Mall.

Yuriko’s performance on the piano was superb, and she received a standing ovation. When the audience demanded an encore, she surprised them with a spectacular solo demonstration of her violin virtuosity. Her self-confidence had grown with each recital and her stage presence was a definite crowd pleaser. Izumi beamed with pride and could not wait to add to her collection of newspaper articles and reviews.

At the concert’s conclusion, the Alonso family went backstage and visited with Yuriko and Izumi in Yuriko’s dressing room while she changed clothes. Then they hastened across West Temple and strolled to the Olive Garden Restaurant for an early dinner. Though it was nearly four-thirty in the afternoon the temperature was still in the nineties and it was as dry as an Egyptian mummy—an ordinary summer day in the Salt Lake Valley.

The two seven-year-old girls got along as if they were sisters. Sarah was brown-eyed, auburn-haired, dimpled and slightly taller than Yuriko. Yuriko was thrilled her new friend could play the flute and piano exceedingly well. Sarah did not desire a musical career, however, but was galvanized by her strong curiosity in mathematics, and was gaining proficiency in calculus and partial differential equations.

Yuriko and Izumi had to leave the following Saturday, July 18, for Portland, Oregon where Yuriko would perform her fourth concert, her only evening concert of the tour, the next Thursday. Portland was the last concert before Seattle’s on the second of August. Over the next few days, Mr. Alonso packed the two families into his SUV for a day trip to Park City and on another day to tour the silver mine outside of Park City.

On Friday the two families visited the Mormon Temple complex. Afterwards, they had dinner and a pleasant walk back to the hotel on a warm summer evening, where Yuriko and Izumi bade a reluctant goodbye to their new friends. The two girls acknowledged their bond and that this would be only a temporary separation.

Three days after Yuriko’s appearance in front of a sold-out audience in Portland, she and her mother arrived at SEATAC Airport mid-morning on July 28, a bright, sunny Tuesday. It had been a tiring five-week tour—with another week to go, but it had been extremely successful. Yuriko had received much acclaim and approbation for each of her performances. Three music critics referred to her as ‘another Mozart’.

Her final concert, with the Seattle Symphony Orchestra, would be on the following Sunday—before their return to Tokyo the next day. As they made their way to the baggage claim area, they saw someone waiting for them, holding a small sign with their names on it.

“Hello, I’m Howard Starkey. Welcome to Seattle,” he said as they approached him.

“Thank you so much,” Izumi replied as she bowed and then straightened. “I happy to meet you, Mr. Starkey.” She covered her mouth with her left hand and lowered her eyes shyly. “Prease forgive my Engrish.”

“My mother’s English is getting better, but she’s still a little uncomfortable with it.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Nishikawa,” Howard told Izumi. “You speak very well, and please call me Howard. English will be easier the more you use it.” He turned to face Yuriko. “Yuriko, you speak it exceptionally well.”

Yuriko yawned and then giggled. “Please excuse me. Thank you for saying that. I studied English at school and on my computer. It was good of you to meet us.”

“My pleasure. I’m happy to meet both of you as well. Let’s get your bags and I’ll take you to your hotel. Where are you staying?”

“We stay at Westin Hoter,” Izumi replied. “You know where it is?”

“It’s within walking distance of Benaroya Hall where the orchestra performs and where Yuriko will do her practicing and rehearsals.”

Yuriko yawned again, covering her mouth with her hand and shaking her head. “Mr. Starkey, where are your sons?”

“They’re home,” Howard answered. Then, seeing Yuriko’s disappointed frown, he quickly added, “You’ll meet them later.” He watched her face brighten.

Izumi smiled. “Yuriko’s first rehearsal with the orchestra is on Wednesday afternoon. Is your famiry be here rater?”

“After you check in at the hotel, and get settled, I’ll drive you to our house on the peninsula. It’s a two-hour drive, including the ferry ride across Puget Sound. You’ll have dinner with us and sleep over tonight. Dennis Murphy and three other people will join us for dinner.”

“We do . . . don’t want to make for you more work,” Izumi stated.

“Oh, Mama-san, please,” Yuriko begged.

“It’s all right, I assure you,” Howard insisted. “We all want to get to know you, and I’ll drive you back to your hotel tomorrow.”

It was a half-hour drive up the I-5 freeway and a few blocks through downtown Seattle to the hotel. Izumi checked in and then they had a light lunch in the hotel coffee shop. Soon the three were on their way to the Starkeys’ home near Port Townsend. They exited the ferry on Bainbridge Island and went past the picturesque town of Poulsbo. Then, onward through the forested landscape to the Hood Canal Bridge, one of the world’s largest floating drawbridges.

Howard drove across and took the slightly faster route through charming Beaver Valley with its small farms surrounded by wooded hills. They remained quiet while Izumi and Yuriko watched the beautiful scenery pass by. Howard had the radio tuned to KING-FM, Seattle’s classical music station, but turned it off and played a CD instead.

Izumi, seated in the front passenger seat, turned to Howard. “Your choice of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony is perfect for drive.”

“The Pastoral Symphony is one of my favorites,” Howard replied, “and I enjoy it on a drive like this.”

“How much farther to your home, Mr. Starkey?” Yuriko questioned from the backseat. She was getting restless from being in the car for almost two hours.

“Yuri-chan, don’t be impatient,” Izumi advised her daughter.

“Not far now,” he answered, as they approached Chimacum to the opening notes of the symphony’s second movement. “Another ten minutes and we’ll be there.”

It was nearing three thirty as they entered the Kala Point community gate and completed the short drive to the Starkey house.

Yuriko’s eyes opened wide and she absorbed the sight as they pulled into the driveway of a beautiful two story cape-cod-style home set against a wooded area at one side and a view of Port Townsend Bay and Indian Island in the back. “Oh, this is so beautiful. I love it.”

They entered the house with Howard carrying the small suitcase Izumi brought for their overnight stay. Izumi and Yuriko slipped off their shoes. Howard kicked his off as well.

Howard put their shoes in a shoe cubby in the entry closet as Dorothy Starkey and Irene Cohen came out of the kitchen to greet them. The women had taken off early from their jobs to prepare dinner for everyone. As Howard made the introductions and they all exchanged greetings, Jason and Peter thundered down the stairs.

“Yuriko,” Jason yelled as he hit the floor. He gaped at her and then cocked his head to one side. “I know you, or at least I’ve felt you in my mind before,” he told her telepathically and watched her eyes light up.

Yuriko felt a wave of warmth radiate through her and her heart fluttered. She was about to reply to Jason when Peter skidded to a stop in front of her. “Hi, Yuriko,” he said before turning to Izumi. “Oh, sorry. Hello, Mrs. Nishikawa.”

Yuriko’s smile belied her red-faced self-consciousness at the attention she was getting. Howard noticed her discomfort and said, “I apologize too. Boys, calm down. I’m sure they are already overwhelmed by all this.”

After further introductions, they got comfortable in the living room. Dorothy and Irene had already placed a selection of crackers and cheese on the coffee table. Jason and Peter struggled with each other for the privilege of sitting next to Yuriko, while she tried to cover her broad smile and stifle a giggle—to no avail. Jason and Yuriko kept glancing at one another.

“Dennis and Rama will be here at five,” Dorothy told them, and then added, “Irene’s husband, Albert, who is also our family doctor, should arrive by six. I hope your trip has been pleasant and not too exhausting.”

Izumi smiled. “Thank you for hospitarity. We are tired, but not so much. It has been a grand trip. We meet many wonderfuru peoper.”

“In each city, we met children like me,” Yuriko interjected. She pointed at Jason and Peter. “Well—like us. Dr. Murphy and Dr. Gupta made the arrangements.”

Izumi was self-conscious, as Japanese tend to be whenever they try to speak an unfamiliar foreign language. She rose, bowed her head. “Prease, I aporogize for poor Engrish.” Izumi sat once more.

“Don’t be concerned, Izumi,” Dorothy replied. “You speak well enough.”

Howard shook his head and chuckled. “Izumi, you don’t have to apologize to anybody.”

“We understand what you say without difficulty,” Irene added.

“Thank you,” Izumi said. “You make me feer good . . . and wercome here.”

“Izumi please tell us about Yuriko’s concerts,” Dorothy prompted.

Izumi described the marvelous reception given to Yuriko and showed them clippings from various reviews. She told them of her call to Takashi that morning from the Portland airport. He had just gotten into bed, but was excited to receive her call. Takashi had admitted he saved articles on Yuriko’s performances from eleven Japanese newspapers, including the Asahi Shimbun, Japan Times and Osaka Shimbun.

Seeing that the children, especially Jason & Peter were restless, Howard suggested, “Boys, take Yuriko upstairs and show her where they will sleep tonight, and then show her your room and computers.”

In a matter of seconds all three children had scrambled upstairs, but not before Yuriko politely said, “Please excuse me.”

“I hope you did not go to much trouburu for dinner,” Izumi remarked.

“Not at all,” Dorothy responded. “Irene and I prepared a very simple meal of sushi, salad, and shrimp and vegetable tempura. It fits in with our semi-vegetarian style of eating and will be served as a buffet on the kitchen island so you can take what you want. The adults will eat at the dining room table and we’ve set up a folding table nearby for the children.”

“Prease, may I assist,” Izumi asked.

“Yes, of course,” Irene answered. “We don’t have much to do, but we’d love your help.”

The women went to the kitchen. Howard returned to the study and worked on his novel.

Jason and Peter showed Yuriko the guest room, then brought her to their room.

Peter guided Yuriko to his desk, on which the computer rested and showed a screen saver of his own design. “Yuriko, we want to show you—”

“Wait a minute, Pete,” Jason interjected. “Yuriko, I’m sure you heard me mind-talk when we first met, didn’t you?” She nodded affirmatively, though demurely. He continued. “Well, haven’t we sensed each other’s thoughts before?”

Yuriko nodded her head again more vigorously. “Yes. I’ve been thinking it was you, but I wasn’t certain.” She reached over with her left hand and touched Jason’s right hand and then quickly withdrew from the highly charged contact.

“Okay guys, can we get back to the website now,” Peter asked and turned to Yuriko. “Let me show you something.” While he brought up a website, he explained, “It took a lot of effort to convince everyone to let us create a website for the altered children to use.

“Tom Wallace’s father helped us encrypt anything on the site, or in messages we need to keep secret,” Jason added quickly, his eyes never leaving Yuriko’s face.

“Ahem!” Peter crossed his arms and then bent down next to Yuriko. “This screen displays when someone first links to the website. You should set up your profile so you can use the site from your home.” Peter had Yuriko sit at the desk and the boys brought chairs over and sat on either side of her.

Yuriko looked at the screen and scrolled down the series of ten multiple-choice questions, most of which dealt with the children’s paranormal abilities and experiences. She turned to Peter. “This is so cool, Ja . . . Pe—I’m sorry but it’s hard to tell you two apart.” Yuriko looked back and forth between the twins. “But, if I touch your minds, I can do it. Can we practice our tele—our mind-talking, please?”

The boys laughed and then agreed. With a little practice, they were able to communicate telepathically without difficulty.

“Everybody has a problem telling us apart at first,” Jason said without talking.

“Yeah,” Peter agreed. “Just look closely at our hair.”

After half a minute staring at each of them, Yuriko smiled. “Oh, I see. Do you always have that cowlick, Jason?”

“Sure seems like it,” Jason replied. He pointed to the monitor. “Let’s get back to the website, okay?”

“Should I answer the questions?” Yuriko asked, pointing at the monitor.

“Yes, it’s the only way you can get to the profile setup screen,” Jason replied.

If anyone answered three questions incorrectly, the person was forced to leave the site. If no more than two questions were missed, a second screen displayed.

Yuriko answered the first question and moved to the next one. A check mark appeared in the error box. Jason and Peter glanced at each other and Jason crossed his fingers. She continued through the remaining questions without a mistake. After the last one another screen displayed. Four questions were on it, also multiple-choice. The correct answers were found on the succeeding screen, which nobody could see unless they answered these four correctly. But the answers would elude everyone who was not clairvoyant.

Yuriko sat quietly for a few moments after reading the enigmatic instructions and then her face lit up. She looked at each of the brothers, smiled and wagged a finger at them. “Very tricky.” The three children chortled. Yuriko answered the four remaining questions without error.

Peter gave her a pat on the back as the third screen displayed. Jason applauded. Yuriko filled out her profile and created a user name and password. Then she logged in. “Oh, how interesting,” she said, reading the instructions. “It’s a bit cryptic, but . . . ahhh. .Please tell me about your secret codes.”

Jason and Peter explained about one-time pad ciphers and the code book variation they and Tom had developed. Once they identified the code book then in use, Yuriko had no difficulty in decoding the puzzles and riddles, especially when shown how to use the software the boys created to decrypt the code. The brothers told Yuriko that following her return to Tokyo, she would be able to download the software and use it to read encrypted pages on the website, and encrypt and decrypt various forms of communications, including e-mails.

The boys’ site included two chat forums and a newsletter to which some of the growing number of altered children contributed. It also had statistics concerning the children’s gender, ages, locations, and information on their interests and skills. As a condition of being allowed to set up the site, Dennis and Rama had each been given a unique administrator username and password so they could monitor the site at any time.

“What do you like to do for fun?” Yuriko asked.

“We like camping and hiking. Oh yeah, and play chess,” Peter responded.

“Uh-huh, a lot,” Jason added. “We’re good, too. And I really like astronomy. Sometimes I play with the dog next door. But, Pete is allergic to dogs.”

“What about you, what stuff do you do?” Peter inquired.

Yuriko paused a few seconds. “You know, I like all my classes. I’m interested in almost everything. Occasionally I play Gomoku with a friend at school, and I’m getting pretty good. But I spend most of my time with my music—practicing or composing.”

Jason asked what Gomoku was and Yuriko described the thousand year-old game.

“Have you ever mind-talked with anyone else?” Jason asked Yuriko.

“I hear voices—sometimes when I want to; other times it’s totally unexpected. But until this trip I mind-talked with only one Japanese altered child. Now I can do it with several children I recently met . . . including you two.”

Peter bumped Jason out of the way. “Would you like to try mind-talking with some kids—together with us?” Peter wanted to know.

“Oh yes, please. I would,” Yuriko answered, clapping her hands enthusiastically.

The boys had practiced telepathic conversation numerous times now and had established a solid rapport with almost a dozen children, including Anna Burgio, Kamal and Zahra Fakherdin, and Tom Wallace.

In secret, they’d all mastered the technique of entering someone’s mind without their knowledge and causing them to take a specified action. Such suggestions turned out to be stronger and longer lasting than the customary post-hypnotic suggestions, in part because a normal person who was the target of the suggestion was convinced it was his or her own idea. This technique also allowed them to help other altered children to focus their minds so they could converse telepathically. Jason turned Yuriko’s chair to face him.

“First, clear your mind,” Jason instructed her. “Now, focus on me and listen with your mind. This is Jason, Yuriko. Can you hear me?”

“Yes. I hear you. Do you hear me?”

“I sure do, Yuriko,” Jason said.

“Me too,” Peter added.

“I heard you too, Peter,” Yuriko stated.

“It’s only four thirty,” Peter said. “It’s still early back east.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason agreed. “Let’s try to talk with Anna and Tom.”

With the boys’ help, Yuriko had a brief conversation with both Anna and Tom. She asked all of them if they’d ever mind-talked with Sarah Alonso, whom she’d met in Salt Lake City. Only Anna had, but just once. With Yuriko and Anna providing the guidance, they all contacted Yuriko’s new friend.

Following introductions, Tom jumped in to say, “Hey, guess what? We’re moving to Washington, DC in a month. My dad just got his orders to go to the Pentagon, and he’s being promoted to captain.”

Everyone wished Tom and his family well and they spoke for another fifteen minutes. Then Tom said, “Gosh, I didn’t know what time it was. Guys, I have to cut out and finish a painting I’m working on. Let’s all talk again, soon.”

Anna informed them she had to leave the conversation because her father was calling her. “He’s been asking me to read his boss’ mind. My dad says he needs my help to make his boss give him a promotion.”

Her comment disturbed the other children. “Anna, that doesn’t seem right,” Jason said as he looked at Peter and Yuriko.

“I don’t want to do it, but he’s my dad . . . and . . . well, I gotta go now.”

The remaining four continued their discussion awhile longer and agreed they should start thinking about the right and wrong uses of their paranormal abilities, something they had not seriously considered before. Yuriko found telepathy getting easier by the minute.

“Something bad happened when I played a concert at my school a few months ago,” Yuriko said. She described the incident of hearing in her mind a boy’s cries and sensing the fire and smoke. “He’s in trouble, I think. Can we try to talk with him?”

“Sure, but how do we find him?” Jason inquired.

“Well, my teacher thought it seemed like the boy was in a primitive African village,” Yuriko replied.

“But Africa is so big,” Peter said, “how do we figure out where?”

“Everybody was black, so it had to be below the Arabic countries,” Yuriko suggested.

Checking the time zones for Africa, they decided the boy would probably be sleeping and there should be nothing else to distract him from receiving their thoughts.

“He probably doesn’t speak English or Japanese. How do we talk to him?” Jason asked.

“If we just send him images, we can’t tell him who we are and we might scare him,” Peter told them.

“Let’s try to find some Swahili words,” Sarah said. “It’s one of the most used languages in Africa. I learned that in a geography lesson.”

Peter checked an online English/foreign language translator website for the Swahili translations of common English words and phrases. Finally, the children were ready and focused on a map of Africa. Then they visualized images of the burning huts Yuriko had seen in her mind on that day in November eight months earlier, and thinking jambo (hello). Eight minutes passed without making contact. Then, suddenly the children detected someone responding in a language they didn’t understand, but hoped might be Swahili.

“Please, can you speak to us in English?” Yuriko said. “We do not understand you.”

In their minds, they heard “Is this a dream—no, it cannot be.”

Yuriko had been selected to begin. “It’s not a dream. I’m in the United States, and four of us are here trying to talk to you with our minds.”

The boy became fully awakened. “I have had strange thoughts and pictures in my mind when I was awake before. I did not know where they came from, and told nobody. But now . . . now I know they come from others like me.” He apprised them of his developing paranormal abilities. Yuriko explained about the altered children and suggested he check out the website Rama maintained as web master, as well as their own, and to have a doctor do a CAT scan to look for the tumor in his brain.

He said his school was teaching the children to use personal computers and the Internet, and promised to check the websites. Peter told him of the Moroccan children, Kamal and Zahra and then asked for his name and where he lived.

“My name is Absko Mwangi. I live in Nairobi, Kenya,” the boy announced, and then added, “but I’m not the one who experienced people screaming and huts burning. Though . . . now . . . I recall having a dream with those images around the same time as Yuriko.”

Yuriko remembered a few of the words she’d heard in her mind that November day, and would likely never forget, and divulged them to Absko.

“I speak English, Kikuyu and Swahili,” he informed them. “Some of those words are similar to Swahili, but could be from any of the related languages in Southeast Africa.”

“Darn,” Peter exclaimed. “Can you try to talk to him soon?”

“Let me practice this mind-talking with one of you first, in the next day or two,” the Kenyan boy said. “Then I’ll try to contact those children in Morocco. If I’m successful with them, I will try to find the boy.”

They said goodbye to Sarah and Absko. Jason added information on their website regarding their new friends, and sent an e-mail to Rama’s website.

Yuriko frowned and began speaking in a normal voice. “You know, the boy from last November, . . . I hope he’s all right.”

“Hmm, it would be great if we could find him,” Jason conjectured. When Yuriko looked at him and smiled, he blushed. “Don’t worry,” he croaked, “we’ll try real hard.”

Yuriko covered her mouth and looked down, blushing as well.

“Gosh,” Peter added. “There might be lots of kids who want help, and maybe they need to get somewhere safe. Could be we can do something for them too.”

Yuriko clapped her hands rapidly several times and her smile grew into a Cheshire-cat grin. “Oh, yes,” she declared. “I make a lot of money playing these concerts. I bet many of the kids are talented and could make money to help.”

Peter snapped his fingers. “Yeah, of course. Tom Wallace is a terrific artist. He’s already sold a bunch of paintings for thousands of dollars.”

“We need to talk to the adults about this,” Jason noted. “Someone has to open bank accounts and handle the money.”

At 5:20 the children were called downstairs, giving them little time to develop their idea further. Dennis and Rama had arrived a minute before. Peter shut down his computer. Then, simultaneously, they stood up and stretched—causing them to look at each other and laugh again. They headed downstairs. Yuriko was introduced to the professors, and the children excitedly told everyone about their telepathic conversations. Izumi was flabbergasted, but proud of Yuriko’s accomplishment.

Albert Cohen showed up closer to five thirty than six o’clock. They finally filled their plates with food and sat at their tables to eat. Jason sat across from Yuriko and blushed once again when she glanced at him coyly.

The flotilla, commanded by Sub-Admiral Spuvi teDanon, remained on station out of Earth’s view. On board the flotilla’s flagship, the assault spacecraft carrier Rostvar Cluster, the crew prepared for the next group of shuttle runs.

Shuttle Squadron Commander Demme kaAshlo entered the shuttle command center and glanced at the schedule of deliveries and returns on the administrative console’s monitor.

“Are we ready for the next set of transfers?” Commander kaAshlo asked the shift’s lead officer, a sub-commander.

“Yes, ma’am. Jerithan children are being loaded aboard Shuttle Squadron D for return to Area D4,” and he pointed to the Scandinavian and Baltic Sea countries in northwestern Europe on the displayed map. “They will begin departing in a half-hour, at 1700 standard hours as scheduled. Squadron B will depart at 1800 standard hours for their pickup from Area B2.”

The sub-commander indicated an area covering Virginia and West Virginia, through the Carolinas into northern Georgia, and parts of Kentucky and Tennessee in the eastern United States. “Area B2 is just coming over the horizon to face our number four monitoring satellite.”

“Good job, Sub-commander,” Commander kaAshlo said. “You have been keeping to our tight schedule very well.”

The commander activated the administrative console’s communicator and contacted Commander geWaxted, the medical team chief. “The next delivery is on schedule, Melker.”

“Thank you, Demme,” Commander geWaxted replied. “My team will be ready to receive the subjects.”

During the early part of dinner at the Starkeys’ home, they discussed Izumi’s and Yuriko’s trip and the concerts, though for the Starkeys and Irene Cohen it was old news.

“How do you like the United States, Izumi,” Al Cohen inquired.

“I rike it much, thank you,” Izumi replied. “Am much amazed how peoper with disabirities are accepted here. Not rike Japan.” Izumi paused to dip a piece of fried, breaded sweet potato into her tempura bowl and take a bite.

Dorothy dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “How is it different in Japan?”

“Oh, Japanese often treat disabered peoper bad. They sometimes mock and shun them, and hide them away. Same to peoper who they think to be strange—rike Yuri-chan. Many afraid of peoper rike her. Japanese peoper must conform and be same as everyone. Here, we see brind and deformed peoper treated as if they were same as everybody. This changes too slow.”

Dennis caught Rama’s attention. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Rama answered. “We know of four Japanese children like Yuriko, but this is the first we’ve heard of those problems. Your neurologist, Akira Tanaka, has been extremely helpful, but he said nothing of the troubles you mentioned. We really don’t know much about Japanese culture.”

“Since I write historical novels and majored in history at the university,” Howard interjected, “I’ve had occasion to research Japanese history. I think the whole conformity thing started back in the fifteen hundreds with the samurai and their code of Bushido, which means ‘the way of the warrior’. In a manner of speaking, the Japanese have been brainwashed into conformity because of Bushido’s stress on unquestioning honor, loyalty and obedience.”

“Yes,” Izumi said. “I think you are correct.”

“Those Japanese children would be much better off here, then being mistreated in Japan,” Dr Murphy surmised. “If we could work it out, Izumi, would you and your family like to live here . . . permanently?”

Izumi closed her eyes and shook her head. “Too much to think of now.” She opened her eyes again. “Coming for concerts was big step for us. What about money, Yuri-chan’s music, Takashi’s job?”

Dennis sighed. “Yes, I know. This is a lot to consider. We’ve been giving a lot of thought to bringing the children and their families together in some way so we could educate and train the children as a group. But we still have more planning to do.”

The children had been listening to the adults’ conversation. Yuriko jumped up and went to her mother. “Mama-san, I can do my music here. I really have no close friends in Japan and lots of people there are cruel.”

Izumi gave her daughter a pat on the head. “We must think on this and talk to your father. My parents would not be happy if we reft, but I think Takashi’s parents would not care much.”

Peter piped up with a comment. “Remember what Yuriko told us about the boy in Africa, and the images she got of people yelling and all that smoke and fire?” Each of the adults nodded or otherwise signaled “yes”.

“From comments we see on our website,” Jason added, “and what we’ve been getting from mind-talking with them, we’re sure there are kids in trouble and who need help. Some of them may not be aware of the tumor.”

“Yes,” Yuriko interjected. “We want to help. Many children are talented and can make much money. Maybe we can help them be safe and . . . and . . .”

“I think I know where you kids are going with this,” Howard said. “I’m very proud of all of you. Give us adults a chance to discuss it and see what we can work out.”

“Sometimes it seems the children are three steps ahead of us,” Dorothy observed.

“Prease excuse. I not say to Yuri-chan yet. She is paid near thirty thousand dorors for her five performances, and I talk to our agent after each one,” Izumi added. “Yesterday, he say Yuri-chan now in big demand by orchestras. They want to pay her twenty, thirty thousand dorors each time she pray. We can . . . want to herp.”

Yuriko, still standing next to her mother, now with tears sparkling in her eyes and a big smile, grasped Izumi’s hand. “That is so much money. Oh, thank you Mama-san.”

Peter reminded them how much Tom Wallace’s paintings had been selling for. Irene added, “And he’s just getting started.”

“Dennis, I think it’s time to try and explain the gravity of this whole thing to Izumi and Yuriko,” Al suggested. “I’m not sure they understand what the tumor signifies.”

“Let me interrupt for a minute,” Howard said. “Jase, Pete, how much did you tell Yuriko about your dreams and everything else?”

“Gee,” Peter said, “we were so into our website and mind-talking, we didn’t have much time for anything else.”

“But we did go over the tumor a bit,” Jason added. “She knows a little about it.”

Dennis and Al told Izumi and Yuriko of the dreams scores of the children had been having, the injections and their tentative conclusions about extra-terrestrials. They were interrupted by numerous questions from Izumi and Yuriko.

Izumi seemed overwhelmed, but Yuriko took it all in stride. “I have had similar dreams,” Yuriko muttered. “You mean they really happened?”

“It seems like they might be memories of something that actually happened,” Albert answered. “Dreams sometimes replay past events, including troublesome ones .”

“Even with the way Americans and Europeans accept and tolerate people with paranormal abilities,” Dennis said, “we’ve concluded it’s best to keep quiet about it. All the doctors, families and children have agreed to say nothing of these unusual talents.” He reviewed the potential dangers if the word got out.

Rama added, “So far, we’ve seen no evidence of anyone outside our group being really aware of what these children can do.”

“But there may still be a lot of children out there we haven’t accounted for,” Al surmised. “What they and their families are doing is anybody’s guess.”

“I’m sure this is frightening and a lot to absorb,” Irene noted.

“We’re still trying to find out what it’s all about,” Howard said. “This is why it’s so important we all work together, and do what we can to help the children.”

“Jason and Peter do not seem bothered,” Izumi observed. “Yuri-chan has managed to hide her strangeness most of the time—even from her father and mother—and to concentrate on her music. Her music . . . I think . . . has kept most peoper thinking good of her instead of bad.”

“Please move here” Jason implored Izumi.

“Yes,” Peter added. “We would like to help Yuriko.”

“We must go home after Yuriko’s concert,” Izumi asserted. “But I promise to talk with Takashi. We see . . . we see.”

By the time they finished their dinner, including a dessert of apple pie and a choice of vanilla, chocolate or green tea ice cream, it was almost eight thirty. Izumi and Yuriko were worn out and decided to go to bed early. Jason and Peter retired to their room, where they discussed the day’s events and read for awhile, finally falling asleep nearly an hour later.

The other visitors stayed to discuss the various proposals for raising money and bringing the children and their families together, especially those from Japan. The conversation began to wind down as it approached ten o’clock.

Dennis laid a hand on Rama’s arm. “I just remembered something you said awhile back. Something to do with these children being the next step in Human evolution. It seems more and more like you may have been right on the money.”

Finally, shortly past ten o’clock, the Starkeys and Nishikawas were left alone.