(Q is for quickly and quince)

From her earliest memories, Quinn knew she was different. Not like other people knew they were smarter or prettier. But somehow, she could see in a way no one else could. She figured out where her parents hid the Christmas presents because when she looked at the door of the locked bedroom closet, she could see right through it. She found her mother’s missing pearl earring because she spotted it in the sink trap. And she had her pick of prizes at the annual grange carnival because she always “guessed” the right number of items in the mystery box.
Her unique ability extended to people, as well. When she was eleven, she asked at dinner one night, “Papa, who is Alice?”
Her father blanched, coughed violently for a few moments, and excused himself from the table.
Moments before, when Quinn had looked at her father, an image of a blonde woman, slender and pretty, floated into her head. Alice, the image whispered. Alice, it turned out, was her father’s mistress.
Quinn quickly realized she should keep her special talent to herself. At best, it was intermittent, although with time and practice, she was able to depend on it more and more. She could call on it when she concentrated, but not always. If she was stressed out or emotionally upset, her vision would intensify, until the world around her was shimmering with hidden objects and unvoiced secrets.
“Migraine,” she said, as explanation for hiding out in her room until the crisis passed.
And then she met Sam. He was in her Psych class at Rowan College, and she liked his laid-back style and his eyes—one was blue and one was green. At least on the surface, his view of the world was also unique.
Quinn tried to shut her mind to Sam. She wanted to get to know him from the outside in, instead of immediately sensing his thoughts. Yet she remembered the easy unmasking of her father’s infidelity and she feared falling in love, because she didn’t want to get hurt. She didn’t want to know everything about Sam—but how could she stop herself?
To her surprise, her feelings overrode anything she might have picked up from him. It was as though her love was a rose-colored lens, filtering out any negative thoughts Sam might have had. By her senior year in college, they had been together for three years. They celebrated by going to the summer carnival. He wanted to ride the ferris wheel, and she planned to impress him by winning a few midway games.
At nine-thirty that night, lugging a stuffed panda bear, a quince pie, and a bag full of caramel corn, they called it a day. Quinn was happy. She kept the strangers’ thoughts that swirled around her at a subdued roar and let a pleasant tiredness take over. It had been a wonderful afternoon. Gradually, though, she sensed a jarring, repetitive mantra.
“Take someone out. Take someone out. Take someone out.”
A young man brushed against her shoulder, and she knew. “Sam, we’ve got to find security.”
The man turned suddenly, pulled out a handgun, and fired into the air. Dropping the stuffed bear, Sam lunged for the man. Quinn screamed, and the crowd around them scattered. A second shot fired, and Quinn sensed a sharp ripple of pain. Was it mental or physical? Sam wrestled the man to the ground, disarming him by pinning his gun arm behind his back. Quinn’s vision turned red and shimmery, then opaque.
“Someone help her,” Sam shouted.
In a swoon, she fell into a stranger’s arms. Feelings of horror and concern washed over her —Don’t let her die.
He’s praying, she thought. He’s praying for me.