Teddy had tried to visualize her wall, like Clint had asked. She could choose steel like his, or sand like Molly’s, but neither felt right. Clint looked at her. She knew he could tell.
“Empathy. Let’s start with a definition.”
“Feeling sorry for someone,” Ben said without raising his hand.
Clint shook his head, leaning back on the desk. “I had a lot of different partners when I was a cop. But two of them stick out in my mind—and these were good cops, guys I liked and respected. One of them was dyslexic. He couldn’t turn in a report without me or his wife checking it over first for spelling mistakes. The other guy was color-blind. He’d lied to get the job; I don’t know how he even made it onto the force. But despite his false application, he was a great cop. I’m not dyslexic, and I’m not color-blind—but I understood their brains were wired differently than mine.”
“I’m guessing it didn’t work the other way around, did it?” Pyro called out.
Clint laughed. “Right. My psychic ability helped us close case after case, but they couldn’t understand that my brain was wired differently, too. Both of them requested a different partner within six months.”
Behind her, Teddy heard Ava Lareau clear her throat. “I’m sorry, Professor Corbett, but I don’t see what any of this has to do with empathy.”
“Empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of others. To be able to put yourself in their place. Ultimately, it’s up to you if you disclose to your partner about your abilities, but if any of you is harboring some private fantasy that you’re going to jump into a position at the CIA, Homeland Security, or local law enforcement and be embraced because everyone there was just dying to have some hotshot psychic join their team and solve cases they’d been stumped on for years, you’re wrong.”
Clint stood up and pointed a single finger ceiling-ward. “So that’s number one,” he said. “You need to empathize with your colleagues. It has to be frustrating as hell to learn you arrested the wrong guy—or worse, let the right guy walk. Whether or not they realize you had extracognitive help, they’ll resent you for making them look like idiots. But it’s not about you, people, it really isn’t. Accept that and move on. That’s the kind of empathy you need to learn to keep your job.
“Number two,” Clint went on, “and this is more important: all of you have demonstrated an ability to psychically connect to another psychic. That’s good, but you need more than that when you’re dealing with a potential suspect. You need empathy. And I’m not talking about pulling that Officer Friendly bullshit where you cuddle up to someone and convince him to waive his constitutional rights. I mean getting to the core of another person’s feelings, thoughts, and motivations. Be ready to access that skill on a dime. Not just fast—instant. That’s the kind of empathy you need to be good at your job.”
Teddy glanced over at Molly, whose face looked white in the dim classroom. As an empath, she had no choice to feel—and Teddy knew she hated it.
“We’d all like to believe we’re good people,” Clint said. “But the truth is, empathy is a fragile reaction. In times of extreme stress, the psychological capacity that humans have to empathize with others is often eliminated. That’s why you’ll see people kicking others off lifeboats to save themselves. The only way to counter that is to diligently practice empathy every day. That’s the kind of empathy you need to be a good person.”
He asked the students to find a partner and share an experience during which they’d felt vulnerable. Molly tapped Teddy’s elbow, and Teddy nodded back.
Clint moved through the room as the class shuffled off into pairs. “As your partner is speaking, I want each of you to connect to your partner’s emotions. Actually feel them. Mine them for all you can get.”
Other students had claimed the more private corners, so Teddy and Molly found themselves squarely in the center of the classroom. They sat down cross-legged on the floor, facing each other, their spines straight.
“You first,” Molly said.
Teddy could talk about her birth parents, her so-called epilepsy, struggling to come to terms with her new psychic abilities. But she didn’t know how to put those experiences into words. They felt too raw, too new.
Instead, she described the time a few years ago when her best friend from high school had come back to Vegas to visit. Her friend had recently married; she was expecting a child soon. As Teddy talked, Molly voiced each of her varying emotions. The joy at seeing her old friend, the nostalgia while reminiscing over old times. Teddy’s pang of guilt at not being able to finish college, as her friend had done. Her mixture of envy and happiness at her friend’s description of married life.
Then it was Molly’s turn. She sat there for a few moments, as if trying to decide which part of her she was willing to share.
“I know it’s hard,” Teddy said. Which was bullshit, because she had taken the easy way out.
Molly shook her head. “It was hard to be a kid and just . . . feel everything all the time. Especially adults’ emotions. My dad had just died, and my mom was on her own. She was doing her best, but she was depressed. Didn’t help that I was a handful. Crying all the time. One night when my brothers were acting wild, I got hysterical—sensing my mother’s sadness, I think. But she couldn’t deal with me and my brothers at the same time, and so she locked me in a closet. I was stuck in there for hours.”
Teddy closed her
