[ WP ] Everyone is inexplicably born with an utterly useless superpower . As the years pass , their use starts to become clearer and clearer .

Been a while since I doubled a toad. 
 
 Hank and I used to take strolls round Harvey ’ s Hill, where the grass was tall, and toads would come out in the evening to feed on the insects. I ’ d look at one and focused very hard, and -pop- the little beast would just split into two. Funny, it wasn ’ t even an exact clone -- the other toad would be yellow even though the first one was black. Different patterns on their skin, too. 
 
 “ How ’ d you do that, ” Hank asked. 
 
 “ Same way you split the clouds. ” 
 
 He nodded. It wasn ’ t all that crazy, really. Pa believed he could make the corn grow stronger just by looking at it. Some people laughed, but our corn was always taller than on any other farm. 
 
 So it made perfect sense that Hank could split clouds and I could turn one toad into two. 
 
 Once, I turned a single toad into two. Then three. Then four. At the end, there were 15 of them, yellow, brown and black, big and small. Hank and I wanted to make them race. But in the end I got so tired I had to sleep for an hour, right there and then, in the grass. We both fell asleep, and by the time we woke up, all the toads had gone somewhere. 
 
 Next year, we started going to school, and I forgot about the toads. Plus, there weren ’ t that many toads anymore; Pa said the droughts got to them; same way they got to our crops. 
 
 It ’ s been like that for two years now, but this summer was really bad. The ponds around Harvey ’ s Hill were all gunpowder dry, and you could walk all the way to the other side of Lake Hope on foot, the water having all but disappeared. Some of the fish and frogs and crabs recessed into deeper waters; some got caught in smaller ponds near the edges of the lake, waiting to die. 
 
 One day, Hank and I were going fishing when I saw it: A black and yellow toad, just sitting there on the side of the road, looking at me. It ’ s been so long, I forgot whether the toad thing was real or just a childhood dream. 
 
 “ Do it, ” said Hank. 
 
 And even before I could answer, I looked back at the toad and two toads were looking back at me. One black and yellow, the other brown as a dung pile. 
 
 “ You still got it. ” 
 
 “ I guess I do. ” 
 
 There were no fish that day. Or, there was plenty of fish, but dying fish ’ s no good. Pa told me to bring home a couple of crabs if I can, so I did, and Hank got a few, too. We were on our way back home, on the dusty road leading from Hillsborough, round the lake and to the Heartlane farm, when Hank started chuckling. 
 
 “ What? ” 
 
 “ Reach up on top of your head. But don ’ t get scared. ” 
 
 So I reached up and grabbed the fattest locust I ’ ve ever seen. 
 
 “ Yuck! ” As I was about to throw it away, it managed to push off my hand with its hind legs and jump away clumsily. It landed a couple yards away. “ That was one huge, darn-ugly beast! ” 
 
 “ You could ’ ve brought it home for supper. Bigger than some of the fish in that pond, ” Hank said. 
 
 We both laughed. 
 
 I turned around. “ Wonder where it came from. ” I put my palm over my forehead and looked towards the farm in the distance. 
 
 “ What ’ s that cloud? ” 
 
 Hank squinted. “ What cloud? ” 
 
 “ There, on the left, right above our corn field? ” 
 
 Just then, another one of them fat locusts fell from the air, right next to us. And another. Hank had a look of terror on his face. He may have been laughing earlier, but he ’ s the one that doesn ’ t like bugs, not me. He dropped his crabs and started running towards an outhouse in a field, some two hundred yards from us, and I ran, too. Don ’ t wan na be here when that cloud comes. 
 
 The outhouse smelled bad, but the sound of locusts hitting the wooden planks from all sides was worse. The entire outhouse was shaking, and then I realized it wasn ’ t just the locusts, it was Hank leaning down on one wall, trembling. 
 
 “ It ’ s gon na pass, ” I said. 
 
 “ I know. I know. ” 
 
 It lasted at least 10 minutes, but Hank wasn ’ t coming out till he was sure. And when we finally did come out, the ground was black with dead bugs. We could see the cloud in the distance, there in the west, but I thought I saw another cloud, farther down south. Hank was busy looking down on the ground, trying not to step on too many locusts. I didn ’ t tell him. 
 
 We were near the farm, Hank hurrying ahead 10 paces, when he stopped at pointed to the side of the road. A toad, almost all yellow, looked up at us. “ Wra-ga, ” it said. “ Wra-ga. ” 
 
 “ Listen, ” said Hank, “ toads eat locusts, right? ” 
 
 “ I believe they do. Their favorite food, I think. ” 
 
 And just as I said that, there were two toads on the side of the road. “ Wra-ga. Wra-ga. ” 
 
 “ OK. OK, ” I said. 
 
 Hank looked a little better. 
 
 Later, in the night, neither of us could sleep. We just lay in our beds, staring at the ceiling in the dark, listening to the sounds of toads outside. First it was the heat, then the droughts, then the locusts. Things were getting worse, but at least we had a way to do something about it. Didn ’ t make me feel much better, though. And even in the dark, I could see that Hank didn ’ t feel all that good. 
 
 “ What do you think the cloud thing is for, ” I asked. 
 
 He turned to his side. “ I don ’ t wan na know. ” 
 
 I wasn ’ t sure I wanted to know, either.
