“Hey. I’m here to see the psychic? Clara Voyant or whatever?”

“Hello, that’s me.” I was flustered. Where had she come from? Why did she need a reading so badly? “Please, have a seat. Sorry, we usually don’t open until eleven on Saturdays.” The crawling feeling started again, and I scratched my nails along my arms.

“Cool,” she said, watching me itch. I dropped my hands to my sides.

Her eyes roved over the counter, which was crowded with statues of saints Des had bought from the dollar store a few blocks down, plus a single jade Buddha she stole from the Eastern Delights Massage Parlor—payment, she explained, for them giving her a mediocre foot rub.

“Just give me a minute.” I pulled the curtains open, tied them back, and the shop flooded with sunlight so suddenly that the woman winced. I made my way over to the shelf, took the satin bag of tarot cards down, and wondered if I should choose a crystal. Sometimes I brought one over just for show, but she didn’t seem like the kind of person who would go for that kind of thing. She seemed a little embarrassed to be here at all, which didn’t make sense to me yet, given the way she had pounded on our door. I carried the tarot cards back to the table and started to shuffle. She kept her eyes on my hands.

“I usually start readings with a question. Is there something you came here to find out?”

She stared down at her fingernails, picked at her cuticle.

“You don’t just … see shit and tell me about it?”

“Not exactly. It helps to have a focus. Something you care about.”

She blew her bangs away from her forehead. “Something I care about. Ha.”

“You can think about it for a minute. No rush.”

She looked out at the boardwalk again. It seemed like she was watching for something, someone, but I couldn’t tell what. The seconds beaded into minutes. I didn’t mind the silence, unless it meant that she was going to change her mind about the reading entirely—like that other woman had. She shifted in her chair, continued to pick at her nails. Then, just as I was starting to get worried she might get up and leave, she spoke.

“I want to know what’s going to happen to me … like, what’s next? Like, is this just my life?” When she faced me again, I realized that she was younger than I had first thought. Probably only five or six years older than me. But her skin was bad underneath the makeup, and she had that hollow stare of someone who’d seen too much.

“Okay, so you want to know about money? Your job prospects?”

She snorted. “Job prospects. Christ, that’s rich. Seriously? So many fucking questions. Aren’t you the psychic?”

“It doesn’t work that way.”