My voice shakes but I continue. “Lucas signed me that day. But the reason I’ve never mentioned Danny in my origin story is because Lucas only wanted me, not my best friend. So I left Danny behind.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “The excuse that I was a scared kid with no prospects or family who saw a chance to do more than just survive doesn’t make up for screwing Danny over. That’s a shame I’ve carried with me all these years. My agent recently found Danny. At first he wouldn’t take my call. I kept trying. We finally talked. Danny is the director of a small theater company in Seattle, has two kids and a great husband. He was kind enough to accept my apology and even invited me to Washington to see one of his plays. I’m heading there in a few weeks.”

I take a deep breath then slowly let it out. “But back to my origin story. Once I’d signed with an agent, successes piled up, and money, too. An elusive thing called buzz happened. Plus, all of you started to really trust in me.” My smile feels bittersweet. “You’re more powerful than you know.” I walk along the stage, look into the audience. “Have any of you heard the story about a frog placed in a pot of water, the heat turned up so slowly that he doesn’t realize until too late that he’s been cooked alive?” A few people nod. It’s a relief that I haven’t lost everyone yet.

“In six years, I went from being an eighteen-year-old psychic sitting at a folding table in San Francisco, connecting one-on-one, to having a show with employees, laser lights, smoke machines, choreographed music, and hundreds then up to a thousand audience members. It happened slowly enough that I didn’t realize my gift was being swallowed, eclipsed by the need to fulfill larger and larger expectations—mine, my agent’s, the people who help put these shows together, and yours, too. Many times I’d stand on a stage like this one, look out at all of you, and feel like a total impostor.”

The audience murmurs their disagreement but I shake my head. “I’m not asking for your sympathy. It’s true. And the decisions made over those years are ultimately my responsibility. Age doesn’t absolve me. I wanted to give more and more people the best of me and in turn to be validated. But in doing so, I lost touch with my gift, allowed the spectacle, the show, to kill off part of me. I’m sorry for that. You deserved better.” I gesture to the stage, devoid of special effects, and my simple clothes. “Today the show stops.”

Nervously, I twist the ring on my finger. “You’ve only ever asked one thing of me—to be honest and certain. But over the years, I haven’t always been either of those things. I’ve come from a place of fear. A few weeks ago, I saw a doctor who diagnosed a bleeding ulcer. My stomach has been bad for over a year, but I never went to a physician because I couldn’t imagine a way to fix something I knew came from the stress of all this. I’m a psychic-medium—every time I stand onstage, each reading, every question you ask that I try desperately to answer results in stress. Your tragedies sometimes hurt me and I’m terrified of disappointing you. I’m terrified of disappointing me, too. And I’m driven to survive. Above all else, to survive.”