She stares, silent, a small smile on her face. The silence stretches and stretches. Can she speak? How can she stand there without moving or talking, not breaking eye contact? She doesn’t seem uncomfortable with the quiet or the closeness.

Her head tilts as she considers me. “We don’t do fortune telling.”

I flinch with the sudden answer. “Oh, right. Well, then tarot readings?”

She stares at me.

“It said it on the sign.” I point to it, even though it faces out the window and you can’t read the words from here.

She neither confirms nor denies, her gaze unmoving from mine.

I fidget, having a hard time maintaining eye contact. This is why I hate talking to people. They’re unpredictable. What is she thinking? Why is she staring at me? Is there something on my face? Shouldn’t she be in school? Can she tell I’ve lost my ever-loving mind?

I can’t handle the silence.

The clock in the corner ticks. Like it’s a bomb about to go off and still, she stares.

“So. Um. Can I get some . . . tarot reading?”

She pauses again for so long, I think I’m going to have to repeat the question, but then she finally speaks. “Let me see if I can fit you in.” She steps around me, going behind the counter.

I count out a quiet minute while she opens the dusty, leather-bound book and drags a finger down it.

She looks up. “It seems we’re free. It’s a ninety-seven dollars. Paid up front.”

“Ninety-seven dollars?”

She nods.

I frown. That’s oddly specific. Well, guess it doesn’t matter anyway. I have some cash I’d been saving for a rainy day—which happens to be exactly ninety-seven dollars—tucked in a pocket of my wallet.

And well, it’s raining. I used to have an even hundred, but I spent three dollars on a breakfast sandwich from a food cart the other week. Is it weird she asked for the exact amount I happen to have? I don’t really want to give up my only cash, but I don’t think the ancient cash register will take my credit card. Besides, what are my other options? What else am I going to do? I hand it over and she pulls a lever and tucks the money into the drawer.

Then she steps out from behind the counter. “Right through here.”

I expect to be led to a dark room with candles, maybe to a table with a glowing crystal ball or something. But instead, she leads me through the arched doorway, down the tiled hall, and out into the garden.

Green vines weave over the muted red and brown brick walls enclosing the space. There’s a miniature koi pond and fountain on one side, a stone bench overlooking them.