Page 30 of Hannah and the Hitman

I reached out automatically to catch it. “Whoa, okay, um… huh. I got it.”

By the heft of it, the box was full of books. Peeking at the address label, it was from one of the book distributors we ordered from, and they packed well. No fluff only neatly arranged hardback books. Heavy ones, like my boxes from the romance convention.

Adjusting my hands on the bottom for a more comfortable grip, I handled it as if it was full of feathers.

“Wow, Hannah,” Dan commented. “Taking up weightlifting?”

I raised the box up and down a few inches. Up. Down. Up. Down. Easy. Even easier than the box I carried up to my apartment. “Um, I guess.”

“Then if that’s not too bad, here’s the other. Mind taking both?” One box was one thing, but two? “I’m behind and I’ve taken over a second route since someone’s out sick. I need to get everything delivered because we’ve got our first birthing class tonight.”

His wife, Marnie, was expecting their first child in the fall.

“No, wait, I don’t think–”

He set it on the other one so I could barely see over the top edge. “Oh boy. Um…”

My arms hadn’t ripped from their sockets.

My back wasn’t breaking.

What the hell was going on?

“Got it?” he asked, checking to make sure I was good.

I met his worried gaze over the top edge of cardboard. He could’ve carried the boxes across the room and set them on the counter and I should have been upset he was bailing on me, lugging a heavy load. But it actually wasn’t heavy, which was crazy. Dan was sweating with the exertion.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” I said, surprising not only Dan, but myself.

I sure as hell didn’t lift weights.

He waved and headed out, practically sprinting down the walk. I turned and went around the desk and into the back room, setting the boxes on the counter, then placed them side by side. I scoped the shipping labels, noted the weights. Thirty-eight pounds. Thirty-two pounds.

What the hell? Since when could I lift heavy boxes? Since when could I break my favorite mug with only a little squeeze of anger? Since when could I rip a bathroom door off its hinges? I raised my arm and bent it like I was trying to make a Popeye muscle. Gave the bicep a finger squeeze with my other hand. No change. Just my usual arm. A little muscle and a whole lot of flab.

Something was up and I had no clue what it was. I wasn’t sure if I should be scared or not. Was this a tumor thing? I felt fine and being able to lift heavy things made things better, not worse. The doctors had said there would be some lingering side effects after my gamma knife radiation, and I’d had a few they listed, like headaches or sleepiness, but not one of them mentioned randomly growing ridiculously strong.

I needed to test this further. I spun around the room looking for something heavy. I went to the loaded down, squeaky wheeled cart that had been pushed to the inside ofthe doorway. The teenaged volunteers hadn’t reshelved today, so it was loaded of books.

With my hands on my hips, I studied it and muttered, “There’s no way I can lift this. I’m just losing my mind.”

Still… I had to know. Squatting down, remembering thelift with your backconcept, I set my hands on the smooth metal side walls of the cart, palms pressing in. Holding my breath, I expected to wrench a few muscles and sweat a little, breathing hard like I was the one in birthing class. No way the cart would raise an inch.

Except it did move. I lifted that thing right off the floor until I stood tall. Then I put it right down. Not because it was heavy, but because it wasn’t.

Quoting Brittany, I said to the cart, “What the actual fuck?”

17

HANNAH

A few hours later, I was in the stacks shelving books, still freaking out about my new talent. With it being summer, it was a quiet afternoon. Smaller children were down for their afternoon naps. Big kids usually avoided the library until they were back in school in the fall. Mrs. Metcalf didn’t work today so if someone needed help, they’d ring the little bell on the circulation desk. I pushed the cart I’d lifted like a circus freak to the end of one row, around the corner and down another.

I started whispering to myself. “So you can lift heavy things. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a good thing! Sure, everyone knows last week you couldn’t lift a three-legged baby squirrel and now you can practically bench press a car. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but everything’s fine!”

A hand on the front of the cart stopped it. And me. And my thoughts.

I squeaked louder than the cart and put a hand to my chest.