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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.

The first proposal of the night happens exactly seven minutes after the fireworks begin.

The islands dance their slow waltz above me, white stone and yellow grass swaying to music I’ve spent my life trying to hear…

“Look, Mr. Penumbra,” I say, flipping through my rainbow-tabbed binder labeled ‘MONSTER MATCHES LLC.’

“He hasn’t spoken since October,” I tell Sarah, watching steam rise from our coffee mugs.

My knees protest with each step up the rocky path, a familiar complaint after thirty years of this daily climb…