One hand on my dog’s sleek, black head, I start. “Thank you for coming. I’m Sylvie Young and this handsome guy beside me is Moose. I get a bit nervous before each show and he helps with that, so I hope you don’t mind him being here?” There are murmurs of encouragement. “Every psychic has an origin story that reveals when and how we first recognized our abilities. That might be when we predicted a grandparent’s passing, delivered a message to the living only the dead could possibly know, or found a lost object, pet, or child. We must then choose whether or not to use our gift.” My eyes scan the theater. Almost every seat is taken. “I never planned to be a psychic or stand on a stage. Sometimes where I’ve landed is overwhelming. Truly. But what’s most important is that when someone asks me to connect with those they loved and lost, I will do anything to make that happen.”

I let this promise settle then continue. “My gift appeared when I was eighteen, living in San Francisco, and had just worked a double waitressing shift, food stains on my T-shirt, the smell of fried food in my hair. On the long walk back to a basement apartment, I stopped in the funky Haight-Ashbury neighborhood to rest on a bench. A few feet away, outside a magic shop named Abracadabra, a young guy read tarot at a rickety metal table. He was flying by the seat of his pants, but he had a gift for weaving stories. After a funny reading, I giggled. The tarot reader laughed, too, we chatted for a bit, then he scribbled a sign that read psychic $5 on a folded piece of cardboard and dared me to sit in the chair beside him. I took the seat, assumed no one would waste money on me.

“My first customers were sisters. The pregnant one was Bethany. I guessed she was almost nine months along—it wasn’t a psychic thing, it was obvious that she hadn’t seen her feet in a while.” I wait for knowing laughter to subside then go on.

“Am I having a boy or a girl? Bethany asked.

“I rested my hands on the swell beneath the cool silk of her dress. The baby kicked and I jumped, laughed, and the mom-to-be did, too. To give Bethany a good show, I closed my eyes. An instant whooshing sound enveloped me, followed by a river of warmth that flowed around my limbs. The warm water cradled me and I felt my body slowly roll . . . but then something tugged, stopped me . . . The next thing I knew, the tarot reader was shaking me really hard. When I opened my eyes, Bethany was on her feet, arms wrapped protectively around her belly.”

The audience is quiet, caught in the story’s web. “Why would you scare her like that? Bethany’s sister demanded.

“Confused, I followed her pointed finger. Scribbled across the inside of my right forearm were the words I can’t breathe. I turned to the tarot reader. Did you do that? But his black marker was gripped in my hand and the writing was mine.” Whispers float through the audience. “By then Bethany was crying.” I tip my chin and look into the balcony section. “I should’ve apologized. But when I was little and in trouble, always with my mom, Dad would say that there was a plant that grew inside my belly called a contrary tree. Instead of backpedaling, I said, She can’t breathe.”