Cynthia can open doors.
This wouldn't be so bad, except there are many ways to interpret door, and if it worked inside her head, then she could open it.
She opened the locked door to her uncle's car, and then got it to start because a door needs a key to work, just like an ignition does, and this made sense when she was five (though she wouldn't be able to do it now). Her feet couldn't reach the pedals, but she did her best and managed to back the car down the drive, down the street, and into a ditch.
She opened the doors to her cousins' rooms when they locked her out, and opened the doors to her neighbor's homes when they weren't there. She was found opening the drawers in the principal's office, and said, honestly, that she had just walked in; the door opened.
On a school trip, she opened the locked display cases that held the mummies and had a dangerous thought, because someone told her once that death was a sort of door. . .
But museum security stopped her before anything could come of it.
When she was ten and her uncle couldn't cover for her anymore, the state tried to send her to juvenile hall. Cynthia was out before the day's end and wandered the park, unsure of where to go next.
Then a glowing door opened in the garden wall beside her, where no door had been before.
"Hi," said the woman. "I'm from the Home. Have you ever opened a door into the ocean?"
Cynthia hadn't.
"Would you like to try?"
Uh, maybe?
The woman beamed. "Great!" And she turned away, leaving the glowing door open.
Cynthia hesitated only a second before following after and closing the door behind.
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