Midjourney

“As you can see,” I say, sliding the photos across my desk, “it’s a lovely three-bedroom Colonial with original hardwood floors and a recently updated kitchen.”

The dust rises with each step, dancing in the weak sunlight that filters through broken windows.

The walkway stretches out before me like an endless diving board into the sunset.

The tiles speak to me in the language of luck and fate.

“Try not to geek out too hard,” Vex tells me as our ship settles onto what used to be Central Park. “It’s unprofessional.”

“Your productivity is down twelve percent this quarter,” my boss says, shuffling papers on her desk while I try not to make it rain in her office. Again.

The thing about working retail is that nothing surprises you anymore.

The thing about being a fake psychic is that you’re supposed to be the one making stuff up, not the universe making stuff up for you.