PK in LA

Mike sat up in the bed, drenched in a cold sweat. He went to the bathroom and vomited a thin yellow gruel.
You know how they used to have stuff on Sesame Street where the muppet would go, “One of these things is not like the others”? Mike fit that description to a tee. Not only was he a bit too young, a bit too overweight, a bit too dumb to accomplish, well, anything in life, he was gifted like nobody else was.
He maneuvered around his room junk and thought about his dream. It had been about his gifts, and how they went out of control…
The man lay, with his eyes closed and chest unmoving, on the hard-packed cement as Mike stands over him with a steely glare in his eyes. A woman screams, but he simply looks in her direction and the noise is suddenly, sickeningly cut off. Mike smiles slowly and proceeds to…
“MIKE! MIKE! WAKE UP!” came a shout from outside the dreamscape, but Mike was too preoccupied to get up, he needed to call 911, that woman…“MIKE! IF YOU DON’T GET DOWN HERE, I’M CALLING AN AMBULANCE!” Mike awoke with a groan. His mom had, once again, rescued him for his telepathic nightmare. Walking down sleepily, he held up a hand.
“I knew you were going to say that,” he said, as his mother opened her mouth hotly, and then closed it. It was hard to argue with someone who knows what you’re thinking, after all, and Mike’s mom was no exception. “Nightmares again?” she said instead, weakly, pathetically. Mike felt a twang of sympathy for her and nodded in confirmation.
“Well, you can’t fight what you can’t see. Go to school and knock ‘em dead,” said his mother encouragingly. Mike just nodded dumbly.