And the woman who sits at that table is less "Gypsy scammer" and more "notary public." Hell, she looks like the head of a church bake sale. Powder blue cardigan. Poof of red hair. Reading glasses over the bridge of her nose.

"Okay, what the fuck?" is the first thing Miriam says.

The woman gives her a droll, dry look. "May I help you?"

"I… thought I was walking into the Psychics-R-Us store. Sorry." She turns to leave.

"I'm the psychic," the woman says. "My name is Miss Nancy."

"Miss Nancy the knitting psychic?"

"I do knit and crochet, yes. A lady has to make money however she can."

Miriam shrugs. "Scream it so the cheap seats can hear, sister. Do I sit?"

"Sit. Please."

Miriam does. She drums her fingers on the table. "So, now what? What happens? How much will this scam cost me?"

"The fee is forty dollars, but I assure you, this is not a scam." The woman's voice is a bit gravely. She smokes, or used to, Miriam thinks, and it only makes her itch for a cigarette – her smoke breaks have been few and far between since she started riding with Louis.

"Trust me, it's a fucking scam."

"Don't use that kind of language with me."

Miriam hears her mother's voice in there, somewhere. She nods. "Sorry."

"It's no scam, it's no sham. The psychic dimension is a real one."

"I know it is."

"Do you?"

"I'm psychic. Shouldn't you have known that?"

The woman clucks her tongue. "If you were a true psychic, you'd know it doesn't work that way and is rarely so simple."

"Well-played, Miss Nancy. Well-played. Fine, forty bucks it is." Miriam slides two twenties across the table. "And maybe if you're really good, I'll buy a knit cap or an ashtray cozy."

Miss Nancy takes the money, and in something of a surprise, tucks it into her cardigan, under her collar – essentially into her cleavage.

"What will it be, then? Tarot? Want your palm read? I read tea leaves."

"I usually just read the bottom of a shot glass. Out of those choices, I'll take none of the above, thanks."

Miss Nancy looks puzzled.

"I'm psychic," Miriam says. "Remember? C'mon, Nance. You don't need those things. Maybe the end result isn't a scam, but those items kind of are, aren't they? The pretty cards? The secrets supposedly inscribed upon my pretty palm? You just need skin on skin. Just a touch will do. Am I right?"

Miriam's not so sure she's right – she's out on a limb here because she's never actually met someone who claims to be a real psychic. But this is how hers works, and presuming that fate works a certain way, with certain rules, and demands certain things of its endlessly toiling workers, then she figures Miss Nancy is bound by the same proscriptions.

Below the table, the beagle murmurs, then farts.

"True enough," Miss Nancy finally says, her smile a pinched pucker. She opens her hand, and taps it. "Put your hand in mine."