The letter had come a little late. Starting that school year, my head had already begun spinning with images—I think it was something about all those bodies and hopes and worries crammed so close together. That was the year that Des started me in the shop after school and on weekends, when she decided to call me the Great Clara Voyant. Sometimes ideas and images came to me with the suddenness and clarity of magic, but most of the time it meant observing, thinking, trying to understand who someone was the old-fashioned way—watching them and waiting for them to reveal a particular desire or wish. To be honest, it had a lot in common with what Des taught me about stealing: understanding where a person’s attention was, how much you could get away with, what to do if it went wrong.

I ran the tip of my tongue over my gums and winced as I imagined how much force it would take to knock a tooth loose.

The hair on the windowsill was red as a wound against the white paint. The morning was already hot, the air close and thick. But the drowsy, unreal feeling that had pervaded my days was gone. My senses were alert, my attention sharpened to worry. I wondered what exactly I had opened myself up to, what I had asked for.

DES ROSE at eleven, bleary-eyed and smelling like the club: baby oil, stale beer. It took her a while to get ready, to arrange her hair to hide the hickey on her neck, before we could go try our luck at the spa again.

We walked toward the jitney stop at Bally’s, and on the way Des stopped to reach into a tourist’s tote bag as the woman paused in front of the salt water taffy shop. Des was too slow and the woman felt her, wheeled on her heels.

“What the fuck?”

“Oh, it’s such a pretty bag. I didn’t want to bother you, just wanted to see if it was real leather.” She put her hand on the woman’s elbow, her smile sickly sweet, and the woman smiled back.

“It’s actually from Target,” she said.

“Get out of here,” Des shrieked. “You’d never know!”

“Fucking piece of cheap trash,” Des said, and huffed, as soon as we were out of hearing range. I could tell she was embarrassed. Maybe it was the hangover, or maybe she was losing her touch. Either way, I knew better than to say anything. We passed a poster of Julie Zale in the window of the arcade. I should find a way to return the bandana, I thought. Track down the uncle or put it in the mail. The air was so thick it was hard to breathe, and I felt that same tightness in my throat.