– she turns, finding a man waving to another man, saying goodbye, be they friends or lovers. She doesn't expect it. She was just walking along, lost in her own thoughts, and his hand must have grazed her own. It doesn't help. Yes, he dies. No, it's not tomorrow. One year from now – well, really, one year, two months, and thirteen days. Still. He looks like he has money. It's close enough that she'll consider marking it in her date book later. (If you're around, later…)

Shaking it off, she darts in front of an incoming bus (wondering for a moment, will it hit me? Is this my time?) and steps up to Ashley, who gives her the stink-eye.

"Anything?" he asks.

"This is like fishing without bait."

"So that's a no."

"Yes. No."

He shrugs. "Well, get back out there. Do your… psychic thing."

"This is really your idea of a partnership? You sit on your ass while I go and do the work?"

"My gifts don't come into play until you've hooked a fish, sweetheart."

"Your gifts? Seriously? Spare me. So far, your only gift to this world is that winning smile of yours. Everything else is taking up precious air and space."

"The smile's just the window dressing. But it is a key weapon in my arsenal of charm."

"Arsenal of charm," she repeats. "I'm hungry."

"I don't care."

"You damn well should care."

He yawns. "Listen. We don't have a place to stay. We need a place to stay. When we have shelter, then we'll think about food. Besides, you wouldn't want me to, oh, I don't know, cast you adrift, call the police, call your mother, that sort of thing?"

"I get it. You're holding the cards. Good for you. But quick biology lesson – this girl's gotta eat. I'm human. We humans thrive on food, not to mention liquor and cigarettes. I've got money. Let's hit a Waffle House? Then a motel? It's on me."

He seems to ponder. Then nods. "Fine. Yeah. Let's do it."

INTERLUDE

The Interview

"The boy with the balloon," Miriam says, her face tightening.

"Yes," Paul says. Waiting.

She hates this story. Hates thinking about it. Hates retelling it worst of all.

"It was about two years after."

"After you–"

"After I earned this unique ability."

Paul lifts his brow. "That's an interesting word. Earned?"

"Yeah. Never mind that," she says, waving him off. "I was hungry, and I was tooling around this yuppie suburb of D.C., and so I went to a Wendy's to get one of their… whatever their milkshake-without-the-milk product is called. A McSlurry."

"A Frosty."

"Whatever. I paid. I got my chemical-byproduct-industrial-foam-sugared-lubricant in a cup, and I went to throw away my trash like a good citizen. And there he is."

"He?"

"Austin. Little tow-head with a head full of freckles. He has this red Mylar balloon with a picture of a blue birthday cake with yellow candles. He was nine years old. I know because he told me. He came up to me and said, 'Hi, my name is Austin; it's my birthday, and I'm nine years old.'"