Brent Johnson II

My family and I moved in late at night, after a grueling 7-hour drive up from North Carolina. I had just been discharged from the Army, and while I was out-processing, we signed for a unit in an apartment & townhome community called Crystal Meadows, sight unseen. Don't judge me; when you're discharged, they send you back to the state of your home address at the time you joined—I've got a wife and son, and we needed a place to stay. Couldn't just wing it; better to have a roof over your head when you return home than to let the chips fall where they may and hope for the best. To be fair, the pictures on the website looked good, the units seemed clean, and the leasing clerk was friendly enough. Most importantly, the rent was reasonable, even low, compared to the surrounding areas. Some might say I took a shot in the dark, but I'd describe it more as dimly lit. I had some idea of what I was getting into. We arrived at the complex around 11 pm and started moving our

Try it the next time you get a chance. Engage someone with conversation—wife, brother, whomever—and really get them going. Make sure they're talking when you walk out of the room. It's probably best to ask an open-ended question before leaving. "By the way, what did you think of that [Insert Film]?" — Something like that, nothing that allows a quick answer. Ever since I first did it, I haven't been able to replicate what happened, and I have a theory as to why, but first—let me tell you what happened. I was talking to my wife one morning in our bedroom. She was getting ready for work, and I had just woken up. I needed to use the bathroom, but I remember sitting on the bed and asking her what was going on at her school that day (she's a teacher). That got her going. She started raving about a famous writer visiting the elementary that morning. She wouldn't stop. I remember getting up and walking out of the room. My wife was still getting dressed—and our son

 I didn't want to overwhelm him. Unsure of the potential harm or long-term effects, I started with small requests. Material things. "Hey champ," I'd say, resting my hands on his shoulders as he opened his little black composition book. "Think you could draw a mustang? Make it black—no, blue." I'd wring my hands like a nervous addict while waiting for my son to finish, never certain he'd draw exactly what I asked. By then, I understood how his power worked. You just planted the idea, and the rest took care of itself. No need for specifics or photo-accuracy. His drawings were often crude, but the intent was clear. When he finished the piece—a glob of blue crayon streaks—I opened the front door. There it was: a brand-new sky-blue Mustang gleaming in the driveway like it was fresh off the lot. I wanted to stop asking him for things, I really did. His ability to bring drawings to life scared me, not just because of what he could do, but because I worried

I met my wife in this town. A small, tight-knit community called Gardenwoods. Moved in from the city—desperate to escape the smog, congestion and condensed, monotonous buildings. I needed change, vibrancy.