Not Helping, Lake

OLLIE Riley had been sitting in that same position for over an hour—legs crossed, hands resting on his knees, eyes closed in deep concentration that made his face look older than five years should allow. He was so still that if I didn't have werewolf hearing that could pick up his heartbeat and breathing, I might have worried he'd turned into a statue. Lake, on the other hand, had approximately zero patience for stillness. "Anything yet?" Lake asked for what had to be the twentieth time, executing a perfect cartwheel across the playroom floor before landing right next to where Riley sat. "Any visions? Glimpses of the future? Cryptic prophetic dreams? Anything?" Riley's jaw tightened slightly—the only indication he'd heard Lake's question—but he didn't open his eyes or break his meditation. I was sitting on the couch with a Captain Justice comic open in my lap, though I'd read the same page about six times without actually absorbing any of the words. How could I focus on superheroes whe