A Night in the Life of Glassman

My day—or night, to be technical—starts how it always does: I destroy my alarm clock. Now, that might sound backward for a guy whose superpower is fixing things. But trust me, just because I'm a night owl doesn't mean I like getting up any more than the next person, even if I get to wake up at sunset. Anyway, my alarm clock's the only thing I ever break on purpose.

Groaning, I stumble out of bed and across the cold cave floor toward the beckoning aroma of coffee. I yank open the curtain as I pass. Final rays of sunset shoot through the narrow window in the cave wall, lighting up my work bench. I pour a cup of sustaining caffeination and inhale half of it. The coffee takes hold so I can focus enough to appreciate the sunset across the lake through the window.

"Thank you, Techra," I mutter, not sure what I'd do without the gadget she made me before going on vacation: a coffee maker timed to finish when my alarm goes off.

Right. The alarm.

"Lights," I tell the room as I cross it and gulp down the rest of my coffee. The lights set into angles and crevices of the rock ceiling and walls flicker on, replacing the sun's dying light with blue-white electricity so I can actually see in my cave. Home sweet home, but I can't work in the dark. Another of Techra's inventions. Having a sister whose superpower is technology is super helpful. No pun intended.

I crouch, resting my elbows on the knees of my jeans, and stretch my hands over the shattered remains of my alarm clock. I focus.

The shards of plastic, glass, metal, and mangled electronics spilled across the stone floor give a faint quiver. A soft blue glow reflects off them as my hands hover over them. The pieces flow together. They connect. They re-form the shape they remember from before they broke. Cracks turn to seams, then heal completely. In a few seconds the alarm clock is perfectly restored.
Took longer than usual. Must not be focusing well.

See? It's not irresponsible. It's practice to start off the day and evaluate my concentration.

I scoop up the clock, return it to my nightstand, and go back for more coffee to improve my focus.

A portal of swirling lights opens in the middle of my room and Portia steps through, lugging an enormous box bigger than herself. Yes, Portia does portals. And, yes, she's heard all the jokes. She has super-strength too.

Some people get all the useful powers.

"Heya, Stor! Here's the shipment of the day." She flips her black ponytail with the streak of purple over her shoulder and drops the huge cardboard box unceremoniously on the floor. There's an accompanying thud and ominous breaking sounds from inside the box.

I shoot her a look over the top of my coffee cup as she picks the box up again to get it farther into the room. "Really? Could you not—"

CRASH.

"—do that."

Portia shrugs. "You're going to fix them anyway."

"That's not the POINT— Just—" I sigh and slide off my tall stool. "Never mind."

She slices open the tape closing the box, with something like a dagger—what's wrong with an ordinary box-cutter, I'd like to know?—and steps back. Several smaller boxes and packages fill up the enormous box, all stamped with "HANDLE WITH CARE" and addressed to Restoren—that's me—or Glassman. Which is . . . only sort of me. I'm tempted to not help the clients who call me that but work is work.

I choose a box at random—with my proper name on it—to take over to my work bench. I slice open the cardboard with an ordinary box-cutter and gently slide the contents onto the surface of the table, with a lot of chinking sounds. It's the fragments of a large white china bowl with blue willow-ware patterns visible on the shards. There are approximately a million of them. Probably more than when the owner sent it, thanks to Portia.