“How long will my mom be in surgery?” Thomas asks Levi as we sit.

“Hip replacements take one to two hours. It’s a very straightforward procedure.” Levi glances at me, does a double take. “Hey, wait a minute, I saw you advertised in the paper. You’re a psychic, right?”

I give a little nod.

“I tried to get a ticket to your show,” he says, “but it was sold out.”

The red door blasts open. A female spirit rushes out, her energy all sharp edges. She shows me an elaborately tattooed arm.

Quietly, I say, “There’s a spirit present . . . Do tattoos mean anything to you?”

Levi quickly sits beside me, his expression hungry. “Mom had a bunch. She died a year ago. Is it her coming through?”

“Maybe . . . Are the letters P, M, or L important?”

“L is Levi, my name, obviously. M could stand for my mom’s middle name, Mary. And P is definitely Penny, my girlfriend.”

“She’s showing me a stomach, signaling that it’s round.”

“Dang! Our baby’s due in six weeks.”

“The spirit is pointing to the same tattoo—it’s an emerald green serpent coiled around a black stallion? There are scabs along the serpent’s body. Does that mean anything to you?”

Levi glances away. “Mom died from a heroin OD.”

He’s lying about something. The spirit’s energy has morphed to sticky fear. She shows me the tattoo one final time. The scabs have torn open. Blood runs down the arm, pools in a curled hand.

The beeper clipped to Levi’s scrubs buzzes. He jumps then glances at it. “Sorry. Gotta run. Mr. Holmes, the surgeon will be out to talk to you as soon as your mom’s in recovery.” Levi sprints down the hallway.

I reach for Thomas’s hand but he pulls it away. “What’s wrong?”

He scowls. “Could you not use my mother’s surgery as an opportunity to forward your case?”

The woman across the waiting room slaps her thighs like she’s made a decision, and walks over. Exhaustion and worry spool off her body as she says, “I couldn’t help but hear . . . No judgment, bless your heart, but I don’t, we don’t . . . practicing Catholics . . . but . . . Do you know how my husband is doing in surgery? He had a heart attack, a big one. Died twice on the way to the hospital. The surgeons said . . . It’s a quadruple bypass.”

I glance at Thomas. He stares straight ahead, lips compressed. “I’m sorry. But I don’t know.” Shoulders drooped, the woman returns to her daughter. There’s a tang of metal in my mouth. A spirit lightly taps on the other side of the red door . . .

Twenty minutes later two men in surgeon’s caps and white coats appear, and the air in the waiting area turns dense. They approach mother and daughter, speak softly, and the woman’s body folds in two from the blow. Her daughter helps her stand, their roles suddenly reversed as they’re escorted out of the waiting room to begin the process of mourning.