Chapter 20: The Kash & Grab Preparation
The visions started three days after the Marcus confrontation.
Ben was sleeping—first real sleep in days, exhausted from power overuse and constant stress—when his Danger Intuition activated differently than ever before.
Not a pulse. Not a warning. A vision.
He saw the Kash & Grab's interior with crystal clarity. Fluorescent lights. Mickey Milkovich with a gun, shaking, desperate. Linda behind the counter, screaming. Ian frozen in the doorway, terror written across his face. The gun going off. Blood.
Ben woke gasping, covered in sweat.
The vision had lasted maybe three seconds but felt eternal. His Danger Intuition had never worked like this before—never shown him specific moments, never given him images instead of feelings.
It happened again the next night. And the night after. Same vision, slightly different angle. Mickey's finger on the trigger. Ian's shock. The overwhelming wrongness of violence about to happen.
By the fourth night, Ben wasn't sleeping at all.
He spent the days watching Ian, tracking his schedule, noting when he worked shifts at Kash & Grab. His MacGyver Mind tried analyzing the visions logically—when will it happen, how can it be stopped, what intervention would actually help—but intuition didn't work through logic.
The visions showed inevitability. Something coming that Ben couldn't prevent, only prepare for.
Every intervention he imagined created worse problems. Warn Ian directly? How do you know? Why should I believe you? Talk to Mickey? Who the fuck are you to me? Alert police? On what evidence? Precognitive visions?
Ben was paralyzed by knowledge that should have been power but felt like curse.
On day five, Ben made a decision.
He couldn't stop the shooting. His Danger Intuition was showing him something inevitable, written into this universe's timeline in ways he couldn't alter. But he could prepare. Could improve the odds of survival through indirect intervention.
He showed up at Kash & Grab at 10 AM with his toolkit.
Kash looked up from restocking shelves, suspicious. "Help you?"
"Free repair," Ben said. "Neighborhood goodwill. Noticed your door lock's getting sticky. Thought I'd fix it before it becomes a problem."
"I didn't ask—"
"I know. But Mrs. Rodriguez said you're good people, and I've been doing free maintenance around the area. Builds reputation." Ben smiled with practiced friendliness. "Five minutes, no charge. Consider it prevention."
Kash's suspicion warred with practicality. Free work was free work. "Fine. But just the lock."
Ben spent twenty minutes on the door, but not just fixing the lock. His MacGyver Mind guided subtle improvements: reinforcing the frame, adjusting the angle so it opened inward instead of outward, creating a natural barrier that would buy seconds during a confrontation.
While working, he repositioned merchandise near the entrance—creating obstacles, blocking certain sightlines, establishing natural cover points. Small changes that looked like tidying but were actually tactical preparation.
"You should keep a phone near the register," Ben mentioned casually. "In case of emergencies. Quick access to 911."
"We have a phone."
"I mean right at the register. Within arm's reach." Ben demonstrated, moving their cordless phone from its cradle near the back wall to a spot next to the cash register. "Saves seconds if something goes wrong."
Kash studied him with renewed suspicion. "Why would something go wrong?"
"Probably won't. But it's South Side. Better prepared than sorry." Ben finished with the door, tested it. "Also, this exit—" he gestured to the back stockroom, "—make sure it's always unlocked from inside. Clear path to the alley. Just good safety practice."
"You seem very concerned about safety."
"Lost someone to a convenience store robbery once. Makes you think about these things." The lie came easily, justified by the truth Ben couldn't explain.
Ian appeared for his shift while Ben was packing up his tools. The kid looked tired, distracted, probably still processing Monica's departure. He nodded acknowledgment at Ben but didn't engage.
Ben caught himself staring. Memorizing Ian's face before trauma changed it. Wanting to say something, warn him, prepare him for what was coming.
But what could he say? Don't work Tuesday. Someone might rob the store. How do I know? Precognitive visions that shouldn't exist.
So Ben said nothing. Just finished his work, refused Kash's attempt at payment, and left with the sick certainty that his interventions were inadequate against what was coming.
Fiona was waiting outside his garage when he returned.
She held two paper cups of coffee, standing in that particular way that suggested she'd made a decision and was now committed to executing it. Ben's heart rate kicked up for entirely different reasons than danger.
"Hey," she said, handing him a cup.
"Hey." Ben accepted the coffee, surprised. "What's this for?"
"Been thinking about your apology. About Steve, about the weird factor, about all of it." Fiona leaned against his garage door, looking more relaxed than he'd seen her in weeks. "You're either genuinely good or the best con artist I've ever met. Still trying to figure out which."
"Probably both," Ben admitted.
Fiona laughed—real laughter, the kind that reached her eyes. "See, that's what gets me. Most people would deny being a con artist. You just own it."
"Lying about it would be more suspicious."
"Fair point." She sipped her coffee, expression thoughtful. "Steve's fun. Makes me feel like there's more to life than just surviving. But you..." She paused, choosing words carefully. "You're the first person in years who's helped without expecting something back. Without making it weird or trying to fix me."
I expect everything. Your trust, your love, your future. I know your story and I'm trying to rewrite it. But I can't say any of that.
"I like helping," Ben said instead.
"Yeah. I noticed." Fiona shifted closer, shoulder almost touching his. "Makes you dangerous in a different way. Because I want to trust it. Want to believe someone gives a damn without agenda."
"No agenda. Just..." Ben searched for words that were honest without revealing everything. "Just want you to be okay. That's all."
They stood in silence, drinking coffee, the February cold making their breath mist. Ben was intensely aware of Fiona's proximity, the way she'd positioned herself near him, the fact that she'd sought him out with coffee and conversation.
"I should go," Fiona said eventually. "Kids will be home soon."
But she didn't move. Just stood there, shoulder against his, warmth shared between them.
Finally, she pushed off from the garage door. Looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite read—something between gratitude and curiosity and maybe, possibly, the beginning of something more.
"See you around, Ben."
"Yeah. See you."
She left. Ben watched until she turned the corner, feeling like something fundamental had shifted between them. Not resolution, exactly. But possibility. A crack in her defenses that suggested maybe, eventually, she might choose to trust him.
If he didn't screw it up first.
That night, the vision came stronger than ever.
Ben was lying on his mattress, almost asleep, when his Danger Intuition detonated with overwhelming intensity. The vision flooded his consciousness with sensory detail that felt like drowning:
The Kash & Grab at dusk. Mickey entering with a gun. Linda screaming. Ian in the wrong place at the wrong time. The gun going off—deafening in the enclosed space. Blood spreading across linoleum. Ian's face frozen in shock and horror.
The smell of gunpowder. The ringing aftermath of violence. The wrongness of a life changed in three seconds.
Ben woke screaming.
His heart hammered so hard he thought it might break ribs. Sweat soaked his sheets. His Danger Intuition was still pulsing—not urgent like during the vision, but steady. Confirming. This is coming. This is inevitable. Prepare.
He checked his phone: 3:47 AM. Three days since the Marcus confrontation. Four days since the Gary jewelry sale. Six days since Monica's arrival. The timeline was converging on something, multiple storylines accelerating toward collision.
Ben got up, paced his garage, trying to think through options. His door reinforcements at Kash & Grab were done. His subtle suggestions about phones and exits were made. There was nothing else he could do without revealing impossible knowledge.
I could be there. When it happens. My Danger Intuition will warn me sixty seconds out. I could arrive in time to intervene.
But intervene how? By getting shot himself? By escalating violence? His presence might make things worse, might create different chaos.
Or it might save Ian's life.
Ben stood in darkness, feeling the weight of foreknowledge like stones filling his chest. He knew what was coming. Knew when, roughly. Knew the players, the location, the disaster waiting to unfold.
And he was powerless to stop it because knowledge from an impossible source couldn't be acted on without revealing truths that would sound insane.
All he could do was watch. Wait. Hope his subtle interventions had improved the odds enough to matter.
And pray that when the moment came, he'd know the right choice.
The vision replayed in his mind—Mickey's shaking hands, Ian's terror, the gun going off. Ben committed every detail to memory, knowing he'd need them soon.
Knowing that in days, maybe hours, he'd face the moment where all his powers and all his knowledge would either save someone or fail catastrophically.
The only question was which.
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