"In so far as a scientific statement speaks about reality, it must be falsifiable; and in so far it is not falsifiable, it does not speak about reality."

~ Karl Popper

Downtown

Stevens Point, Wisconsin

Morning

"I'm a psychic, not a magician," Zandra says. She pushes down with both hands folded on the hood of the car parked outside a bar. Leaning takes the pressure off her bad ankle. The warmth of the morning sun heats the metal of the hood, and with it the circulation in her hands. 

"Come on. Guess the card. One random card," the kid, dressed in a baseball hat and a T-shirt, says. He pats the pocket of his baggy jeans just below the tight belt.

"Prove you've got what I asked you for," Zandra says, her vowel-nursing Midwest accent grated over from the croak of her dry throat. "We had a deal. One reading from a world-famous psychic in exchange for a pack of cigarettes."

The kid slaps a cigarette pack down onto the hood. Zandra groans.

"And what is that?" Zandra says, nodding toward the pack.

"It's what you asked for," the young man says.

It's impossible to find decent help anymore. A real psychic would've seen this coming.

"These are clove cigarettes. What are you, in fucking high school?" Zandra says. She picks the pack up and shakes it.

The kid shrugs. "Well, yeah, I am still in high school. It's what I could find, OK? I can't just walk into a gas station and buy them."

Par for the course lately. One thing after another.

"I guess I should be glad you didn't bring me any of that vape stuff. That shit's bad for you," Zandra says and selects a cigarette from the pack. She lights it up, takes a single drag, and flicks the smoldering stick onto the pavement.

Disgusting. Who smokes these things?

"All the cool kids vape," the kid says.

"Most of the cool kids your age in school have already peaked. Give it a few years. Their asshole grandkids will annoy your first born later on. Trust me, I've seen it. I'm old enough to be your aunt who forgets to send you Christmas cards," Zandra says. "Anyway, tell your older brother you'll pay him back for the cigarettes you stole from him."

The kid takes a step back. He says, "How did you know I had an older brother? You don't actually know me."

The belt is cinched too tight to make up for how much larger the jeans fit on you. The denim is all scrunched up at the waist. Your pants are hand-me-downs. Lots of scuffing on the knees and ass.

"I know about your brother just like I know how little your parents or guardians or whoever wipes your ass at night pay attention to what you do with your time. They work a lot, don't they? They're gone for the most part, absent when you need them," Zandra says.

"I...I...," the kid says.

It's the teeth. They're gross. Sure, it's a generalization, but attentive adults wouldn't let this kid go through life with a mouthful of beestings like that. That's not necessarily neglect, either. Shit happens.

Teeth and shoes. You ever want to get started charging money to pretend to be a psychic, that's what you pay attention to: teeth and shoes.

The rest is as easy as a Sunday horoscope. What kid in high school doesn't feel abandoned or alienated by adults at some point? What would the dumb music they listen to bitch about otherwise?

But there's something else going on, too. There's a reason he sought me out yesterday. Something on his mind.

"Look, child, whoever you've got a crush on, go tell them how you feel. If rejection is the worst of it, at least you'll never wonder 'what if' during your inevitable mid-life crisis later on. You're going to find out that life is short and painfully stupid. The best you can hope for is to exit this planet without regrets," Zandra says before quickly adding, "Not that I foresee you dying any time soon. You have a long life ahead of you. Don't hang around with psychics, though. They're nothing but trouble."

The kid remains flabbergasted. "You know?"

Name one other reason someone his age approaches a psychic living in a car. The stupid stuff kids do varies, but their motivations are usually the same.

"Of course. I'm a psychic," Zandra says.

"Oh, wow. I mean, so, you know, you know."

"That's what I just said," Zandra says.

"Oh, good," the kid says.

There's something else in his voice. Relief.

Ah, I see.

This isn't a crush that he's certain about. This is different. He felt more comfortable coming to a total stranger about this. He couldn't go to the people in his orbit.

Yes. There it is.

"Look, I'm probably not the best person to give you advice about this, kid, but let me do this for you. When I look into your future, I see you finding love and acceptance. I can't guarantee it'll be easy, but you're worth it. You'll be OK. I'm the most famous psychic in the world, and I've never been wrong once," Zandra says and coughs hard into the sleeve of her purple gown. "Now it's time for you to fuck off."

The kid lets that percolate for a beat before saying, "I need proof. I put a card in my pocket. You have to guess it."

Zandra closes her eyes and rubs her temples for dramatic effect. "There isn't a card in your pocket."

It's an educated guess. Most people are only clever by half.

The kid turns his pockets inside out. They're both empty. He backs away from the car a step at a time before turning and sprinting away.

And some guesses are better than others.

Zandra places one palm under her chin and the other on top of her head, and twists. The crack that comes next is the only part of her that will feel good this morning, at least until she's had coffee.

Sleeping in cars will do that to a person, especially when the car isn't even yours. Found this one unlocked and helped myself.

She returns to the driver's seat and plans her day, although there isn't much to do except sleep. She settles on that.

Sleep doesn't come. She has another visitor. This time, a well-dressed man wearing sunglasses knocks on the window by her head.

"Do you have an appointment?" Zandra says after she opens the window a crack.

"Do I need one?" the man in sunglasses says.

"As you can see, I'm in the middle of something."

"You are Zandra, correct? The Zandra, the psychic? Known all around the world, on the news, Soma Falls, all that?"

"Sure."

"Thank goodness I found you. I'm from the government, and I'm here to help," the man says. "I'll come right out and say it, because there's no time to waste. Someone is planning on murdering you. It is of critical importance that I not allow that to happen."

I liked the kid better. He wasn't so dramatic.

"And the government gives a shit about me why?" Zandra says. She plucks a cigarette stuck like a finger into one of the air vents and lights up. The smell masks the decay of fast food containers on the floor of the car.

"For someone living in your car, I thought you'd be more grateful," the man says.

In prison, the first person to offer you a favor is the one you'll be in debt to until you die or are released. Nothing comes free. Nothing.

Not that I've been to prison. Sent some people there, though. They wrote me some fun letters.

Zandra sticks the cigarette through the crack in the window and taps fresh ash onto the pavement. The man in sunglasses, only a few years younger than her forty- or fiftysomething in a sixty- or seventysomething shell, takes a step back. The shine in the man's shoes catches Zandra's eyes.

"Correction: this isn't my car. I don't know who this car belongs to," Zandra says. She scrubs the tar sleeping on her teeth awake with her tongue. The morning sun of a summer Saturday slices across her face. "That's how you can tell I'm an honest psychic. A liar would make something up."

Whoever left this shitty Kia parked next to a downtown bar with the doors unlocked is probably still drunk.

"You having trouble finding a place to sleep? I could help you find somewhere more comfortable, plus a lot more," the man says.

"I was a lot more comfortable before you woke me up. Besides, you been paying attention to the news lately? I'm not someone you want to be around, or so they say," Zandra says. She takes a long drag off the cigarette and admires her exhaust. "By the way, the black suit and sunglasses look you've got going, that's about as cliché as it gets. It's hard to take you seriously as some cloak-and-dagger government agent when you look like a tourist. And believe me, in Stevens Point, Wisconsin, a city that wouldn't exist but for a river and a car crash of a state college, I am the tour, from start to finish."

"So I've heard."

"Ask anyone around here. They'll tell you all about it. They've got plenty of time on their hands now. Just like me," Zandra says. She shakes ash from her purple gown, the one she's worn some variation of for more than 25 years, onto the car seat. No sense in trying to blend in with her surroundings. Everyone in this city knows her, for better or worse. "You know, I half-expected you to be a hit man when you knocked on the window."

"You hide your panic well," the man says.

You don't know the half of it.

"Psychics don't panic," Zandra says. "Besides, if a hit man went through the effort of blowing a month's rent on the clothes you're wearing, I'd say he's trying too hard. That's Hollywood stuff. You want to know who the real hit men are? The ones close to you, the ones you trust. They lapse into the profession, only for a moment, their hands bloody one minute and smiling like nothing happened the next. If I needed to be afraid of you, I would be, but I'm not. We don't know each other. Lucky me. Lucky you."

I'm talking too much. Need to slow down or I'm going to cough again. I'm too thirsty to cough. Get this guy to buy me breakfast.

The man in sunglasses stands with the presence of a sentry. It's a well-rehearsed stance, something that Zandra doesn't discount. She doesn't discount anything. Hasn't for a long time.

"You get house calls from hit men often, I take it," the man says.

"Depends. I've watched them chicken out for years. Lots of people out there don't like hearing the truth from a psychic, especially if they have to pay money to hear it," Zandra says.

Because sometimes it takes a fraud to tell the truth.

"And the people who pay for psychics probably don't have a lot of money to begin with," the man says.

"They get what they pay for. Everyone does eventually," Zandra says. "Anyway, if you're going to turn me in, you're going to need to get in line. Thirty-thousands souls in this town, and half hate me and the other half wishes I'd just go away."

"I can help you," the man says.

No one is so charitable.

"They say I'm the most famous psychic detective in the world. What makes you think I need your help?" Zandra says. She finishes her cigarette and flicks it out the window. There's a cough brewing in her throat, but she swallows it away. She won't be able to hold it in much longer, though.

"You tell me. Aren't you supposed to be able to read my mind?" the man says.

"Congratulations. You're the first person in the world to come up with that joke. Have you considered comedy instead of James Bond cosplay? Everyone needs a hobby," Zandra says.

"I can show you my professional identification, but only in a more secure location," the man says.

"Is this car not secure? Would it help if I put on a seat belt?" Zandra says.

"Sorry, no."

No, I'm sorry. You can't out-bullshit me. My degree is in bullshit. I suck it in and breathe it out.

Zandra feels for the knife sheathed to her forearm, obscured by the sleeves of her purple gown. It's cut from a length of lawnmower blade, fashioned into something fit for carrying concealed, with a paracord wrap for a handle.

Still there. The hermit in the woods made it for me. One of the two best friends I ever had. Still can't bring myself to even think his name.

Zandra says, "Come on, you're among friends here. Me, a psychic who breaks into cars to find a place to sleep now that the pitchfork parade torched her business and apartment. You, some random person claiming to be from the government offering to sweep me off my feet on condition I go somewhere out of view. You're a creep, and I wish you'd just get whatever it is you're planning to do to me over with so I've got a proper excuse to stick a piece of steel into you. You're wearing me out here."

The sunglasses can't hide the man's expression. "And you say I'm the one putting on an act. What's stopping you from doing that right now?"

"Quite frankly, lots of people want to kill me. Have for a long time. It scared me at first, but eventually I stopped giving a shit. That you're from the government doesn't help your case," Zandra says.

"But here you are. You're still alive. You must give at least half a shit."

Zandra lucks out and finds another loose cigarette. She lights it as soon as she touches it to her mouth.

I suppose you're half right. If I was dead, I'd have to quit smoking these things...

She closes her eyes and holds the smoke in her lungs. Once upon a time, she could still catch a buzz from her favorite brand.

...and it's hard to quit.

"What hotel are you staying at, child?" Zandra says and exhales, her eyes still closed. Her tone shifts to the way she used to talk to clients at Sneak Peek, her hole-in the-wall business downtown where she gave "readings" to Stevens Point's dim, desperate, and deserving.

That catches the man in sunglasses off guard. He shifts his stance. "You assume I booked a hotel."

Pay dirt.

"Of course you did. You're from out of town," Zandra says. She wraps the statement up in enough drama to make it sound pulled from the ether.

There's no reason to wear a suit like that in Stevens Point. Ever.

"That doesn't mean I booked a hotel. What if I drove here from somewhere else?" the man says.

There's too much shine in his shoes to have driven. He had time to clean up before finding me. It's part of his routine. The clothes are ironed in the right places, not crinkled from a drive longer than a few minutes. He's had coffee recently, as evidenced by the small dot on the white of his shirt cuff, and how close his words are together in his speech. Caffeine, baby. You have to learn to listen for that change of pace. Pick up on these things, and you're better off than a real psychic, if any exist.

No, he didn't drive in. He booked a hotel. And that means something else, too.

"You've been following me for the past three days, child," Zandra says.

"I thought I'd been doing a better job of keeping my distance," the man says.

"Child, please," Zandra says, because she knows how to hedge odds.

Two days is too specific. One day isn't enough. Four is too many. But three? Three is nebulous. It depends on how you count the days. What even counts as a day? Does this morning count as a day? Twenty-six hours can fall on three calendar days. So can 72 hours. That's a 46-hour margin of error.

No one thinks about this shit, because most people don't think at all. They're amoebas, fucking and eating and sleeping in an endless loop of stimulus-response, stimulus-response, waiting to hand their money over to someone cynical enough to hate them for handing over their money.

"Tell me more," the man says.

"OK, you came here from a city that starts with an...," Zandra says. She pauses for dramatic effect. It's second nature. A good performer always leaves the audience right on the edge. "...M."

Another safe bet. This man's accent doesn't sound out of place for the Upper Midwest. Stevens Point, in central Wisconsin, is within striking distance of three major metropolitan areas: Madison, Milwaukee, and Minneapolis. Chicago isn't out of the question, either, but the odds are still on my side.

Plus, even if he's not from somewhere inside the M city limits, the suburbs and exurbs have a way of rounding up.

"You're good," the man says. "What's my name?"

"Loaded question."

"What's loaded about my name?"

"You'd insist I was wrong even if I was right. You're not someone who wants to be known," Zandra says. "To wit, you still haven't taken off your sunglasses. Why should I bother telling you your name, Rumpelstiltskin?"

He's a dog for casual sex, but that's probably taking it too far. Save that detail for later. No need to remind myself how I know that just from looking at him.

"Tell me my name anyway," the man says.

Zandra opens her eyes. She says, "Buy me breakfast and a carton of cigarettes, and I'll tell you about a lot more than your name."

A crash interrupts their conversation. A trash can rolls across the sidewalk by the car, followed by a wet belch.

Looks like someone is here for their car.

"Hey, what're you doing in my car?" a hungover, college-aged man says. He's as surly and generic as they come from the hallowed halls of University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. The university provides its fair share of wandering drunkards, but lately they'remore common in downtown from all teetering walks of life.

"We'll be on our way," the man in sunglasses says. "Right, Zandra?"

Not like I have much of a choice now.

Zandra opens the car door and hobbles out. Her left ankle, injured years ago, needs a moment to come back to life. She leans against the door after standing up.

"Zandra? Like the Zandra? The psychic and all that?" the hungover man says.

"No, the other Zandra who is also a psychic. There are so many of us," Zandra says and coughs into her sleeve. The burn lingers in her throat.

"Oh, sorry. They say that that one Zandra from around here is like a wicked witch or something," the hungover man says, too out of sorts to note the sarcasm.

After rubbing her ankle with her palm, Zandra follows the man in sunglasses into a white SUV.

U.S. government plates.

"You don't exactly keep a low profile, do you? And I thought you'd drive something in black, to match the suit," Zandra says.

"Buckle up. Regulations," the man in sunglasses says from the driver's seat and points to Zandra's seat belt.

"I'll pass," Zandra says.

"You got a death wish?" the man says.

"Are you that shitty of a driver? Just go," Zandra says. "There's a gas station across the bridge a couple blocks from here. It's one of the only ones still open. Get me my usual."

"What's your usual?" the man says as he starts the SUV.

"Don't act like you don't already know," Zandra says.