"Magicians are the most honest people in the world. They tell you they're gonna fool you, and then they do it."

~ James Randi, renowned skeptic

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The knock at the door wakes Zandra from her nap in the hotel room. It's Sunglasses, minus the sunglasses.

"I wasn't done napping," Zandra says after opening the door. She doesn't let him inside at first. They stand in the doorway.

"Just checking in considering the circumstances," Sunglasses says. "Can I come in?"

Zandra closes the curtains after Sunglasses enters. She says, "The nap really cleared my head. You should try it some time."

"You get anything? Any visions? Revelations? Everyone has their own process," Sunglasses says. He plays with the curtain rods. "Psychics, I mean."

I know what you meant.

"Oh, yeah, I get lots from my psychic process. It's very refined. Involves sleeping, eating, and breathing. Now that you know the secret, don't tell anyone," Zandra says. She collapses into a loveseat and rubs her palms together. "Actually, there's a lot to unload. A lot."

"Please do," Sunglasses says and opens the curtains.

"Before we can do that, child, I need to read you," Zandra says.

"Me?"

"Yes. Is there anyone else in this room besides us?" Zandra says as Sunglasses holds in a chuckle. He looks like he's smirking through a hiccup. "Now hold still, child. Look in my eyes. Just focus on breathing."

Zandra watches the number of times Sunglasses's eyes blink. She logs the frequency away in her mind for use later. It's standard practice, along with blinking, pulse reading, twitching, blushing, or any otherwise disregarded movement. The idea is to establish a baseline of what's normal for a person. Anything that deviates from the baseline is a "tell." That's all there is to it.

So simple, it's stupid, but it works.

That's why Zandra never believed in the books she sold at Sneak Peek. Those overpriced guides tried to build rules and boundaries around "unlocking psychic power," sandpapering the inconsistencies with mysticism and romancing the macabre. The advice never worked in practice, but it did keep people buying books.

People can barely see past their noses 95% of the time. That's how they get played by those who pay more attention. First, prime the mark. Second, get a baseline. Third, insert a suggestion. Fourth, let the mark think they arrived at that suggestion on their own. Finally, take their money.

Five simple steps. The rest—the woo-woo and the affirmations and the ooos and ahhhs—are there to throw the mark off the scent of what's really going on.

I should've gone into politics instead.

"I'm done," Zandra says, looking away from Sunglasses.

That's the baseline.

"That's it? Aren't you supposed to read my palm or tell me my future or something?" Sunglasses says.

"You obviously don't know how this works," Zandra says. She rises from the loveseat and stuffs her few possessions into the pockets of the purple gown.

"Well, that's why I'm here, to figure all that out," Sunglasses says.

"We're going downstairs to the lobby. I feel an energetic pull, like someone could be in trouble," Zandra says. She heads for the door.

But not really. I'd like to know if there are any familiar faces down there. We weren't exactly secretive about how we entered the hotel.

"To the lobby?"

"I lead, you follow. That's how this is going to work," Zandra says and unlocks the door. "If you can't handle that, fuck off. Someone is out to kill me. I'm going to kill him first."

Sunglasses raises an eyebrow. "So you know it's a him."

"Do you know it's a him?" Zandra says.

Sunglasses pulls his trademark sunglasses from his pocket. He slips the shades over his eyes before saying, "If I knew that, I would tell you. I only know there's a threat to your life. That's it."

Sneaky bastard.

A quick elevator trip later, Zandra rests her back against the long front desk of the hotel, scanning the busy lobby. She tells Sunglasses to take a seat away from her next to a wall of "complimentary beverages," none of which come in at more than six ounces.

This whole city wants me dead, but who here looks out of place?

Zandra waits and watches the eyes of the people milling in the lobby. Most come and go in a steady churn, but a dozen or so remain in the lobby. No one seems to recognize her.

That doesn't mean no one is watching.

Zandra forces a yawn. It's a trick she learned some time ago to keep an extra set of eyes over her shoulder.

Yawn, and the whole world yawns with you. It's contagious. Yawning is a social function left over from less evolved times. Of course, who is to say that times like these are more evolved?

A yawn shielded by a fist near the mouth replies from across the lobby. The owner of the fist, a twentysomething man, is dressed just a notch better than everyone around him. Dress shoes. Fresh haircut. New dress shirt. Job interview pants. No tie. A waif of a build.

Could mean something. Could mean nothing.

Zandra glances to Sunglasses. He nods.

Good. He's watching. He didn't yawn, though. Did he know not to yawn? Or is he not paying that close attention?

A commotion at the front desk redirects Zandra's attention.

"I can try again, but it's declined. I'm sorry, but I can't give you a room key without a valid credit card," the worker at the front desk says to an exasperated mother and adolescent daughter. They look alike in appearance enough that they could only be so. The worker slides a credit card across the desk to the mother.

"It worked just an hour ago," the mother says.

"Well, it's not working now," the worker says, looking as annoyed as the mother is exhausted.

Money is always relative. It has no fixed value, despite what you've heard. Perspective is reality. Five-hundred dollars to a credit card company is not the same as $500 to an average person. The true value of money changes depending on the perception of the one possessing it. It's the financial manifestation of Schrodinger's cat.

A $100 bill is worth less at a laundromat than a fistful of quarters if the machines only take coins. A credit line is worthless at a hotel if the card doesn't work. Most people float through the day completely unaware of how frequently what they have or don't have changes by the minute.

The daughter does her best to calm the tears of her mother with a hug. It's not clear why they need the hotel room, but there's no doubt there's more to their story.

Zandra spots a tall, glass jar full of old room keys on the front desk. The cards fill the jar to the brim. It all must weigh several pounds. A sign next to the jar says, "Win a Free Hotel Stay!"

They're going to find out how quickly that minute can come.

Treading carefully on her left ankle, Zandra makes her way to the worker. Sunglasses starts to get up from his seat, but she waves him down.

"Can I help you?" the front desk worker says, irritated that Zandra budged to the front of the short line. Midwestern passive-aggressiveness won't allow the worker to outright chastise Zandra for being rude, but the tone makes the point anyway.

"It's the other way around, child. How can I help you?" Zandra says in the patronizing voice she used with her clients at Sneak Peek.

"Unless you have a valid credit card and you're willing to pay for...," the worker starts to say before being interrupted.

"I wasn't talking to you," Zandra says.

Making the audience question their judgment can be key to priming. It's obvious I was talking to the worker, and that's why I must now deny it. Questioning the obvious sounds stupid on the surface, which is why it must be done at scale, in front of an audience, like a hotel lobby. Get everyone questioning everything, then fill in the gaps with suggestions.

It's a control technique. Ask a politician.

The mother and daughter aren't sure what to make of Zandra. They try to shuffle off, but Zandra brings them back with, "Do you know who I am?" They don't make eye contact, but they don't leave, either.

"Ma'am, if you're going to pay..." the worker again starts to say.

"Be quiet, child. I'm not giving you any money, and neither are these two nice people. I'm getting to that," Zandra says. She turns to face the lobby and, holding her arms up high and wide, makes a loud introduction. "Sorry to interrupt your very important day. My name is Zandra. It is claimed that I am the most hated psychic in the world, and the witch of Stevens Point, Wisconsin. I intend to prove at least one of those claims. Please gather around."

Some high school-aged kids in the back of the lobby look up from their electronic devices long enough to give a sarcastic clap. The man in the fresh shirt tries not to pay too close attention. Everyone else looks at Zandra like she teleported in off a spaceship.

Zandra lowers her arms and turns to the mother and daughter. In a more subdued voice, she says, "The world shits on all of us. Sometimes you've got to throw a little shit back."

They remain skeptical, but the mother stops crying.

Zandra points to the glass jar and says to the worker, "What's this about?"

Ask questions you already know the answer to. Questions show vulnerability, and vulnerability conveys honesty. Take care not to get surprised, though.

"The, uh, the jar game? Yeah, it's pretty simple. Instead of throwing out old room keys, we put them in this jar. If you can guess the number of cards in the jar within 10 cards, you win a free stay in the hotel. All you have to do is write your guess on the notebook by the jar so that you can't take back your guess," the worker says, focusing attention in the direction of the jar. Zandra uses the momentary distraction to swipe a small, square calculator off the front desk, hiding it up a baggy sleeve of her purple gown.

"And how many guesses are you going to give me?" Zandra says. Again, it's a leading question, but she's already built the conversation in her head.

"One guess. Isn't that all that psychics need?" the worker says with a nervous laugh.

Now Zandra commands the full attention of the lobby.

Let's put on a show for Mr. Yawn Man over there, and see how he reacts.

"People need a few tries for math problems, too. Doesn't mean they're wrong if they don't get it right the first time," Zandra says. She rubs her fingers against her temples as she stares at the jar. There must be thousands of cards inside. "Tell you what, child. If I win your little game in two guesses, you give these two nice people a weeklong stay."

"Two guesses? I'll need to call my manager," the worker says.

"Fine. One guess. But make it a month," Zandra says. It's a worse bargain for the hotel's bottom line than the guessing game originally presented, but the worker bites anyway. Zandra gave up nothing in return.

That's the power of priming.

The people in the lobby press in closer now, eager to see whether Zandra can deliver on her promise. Only Sunglasses remains seated, taking stock of the faces.

Zandra centers herself in front of the jar of room keys. The room is already quiet, but she raises a hand with quivering fingers to ask for silence.

"Is it over yet?" someone in the lobby whispers.

Zandra raises her hand higher as she examines the guesses on the sheet of paper next to the jar. At least 50 people wrote numbers from 500 to 5,000. Guessing the correct number of key cards within 10 will take more than luck.

One more turn of the screw before I land the reveal.

With a shriek, Zandra collapses to the floor and assumes the fetal position. She pulls the slack of the purple gown over her head, leaving just enough room for light to peek in.

Zandra stays huddled on the floor for a couple minutes. She does her best to make humming and clicking noises to impress upon her audience a supernatural process taking place beneath the folds of the purple gown.

When she finally comes up for air, Zandra leans against the front desk, looks the worker straight in the eyes and says in the most exasperated tone she can muster, "The answer is 2,727."

The worker nearly tips over. "That's...that's...correct. You got it within seven. How did you do that?"

The audience claps. It starts slow, but it picks up in intensity.

It's actually quite simple. They call it the "wisdom of the crowd," regardless of whether each person in the crowd is a complete moron. Put enough of the bacon bits rattling in their skulls together, and you get something resembling wisdom.

Take a list of 50 guesses. Disregard the highest and lowest guesses, then add up the rest and divide by 48. All you need is a calculator and some sleight of hand to grab the list of guesses on the way down to the floor. Moan like a whale with a toothache to keep the audience off guard, and soon enough you, too, can be a "psychic."

"It's on the house," Zandra says. She nods to the mother and daughter. They smile.

This city still wants to kill me, but people love free entertainment just as sure as they love free T-shirts and melted cheese.

"Hey, how about a stock pick?" a balding man with a mustache says from the audience. His voice is subdued, but he screams middle management.

Maybe he's a former subscriber.

Without missing a beat, Zandra says, "Watch the Canadian marijuana stocks, like HEXO."

"That's amazing," the balding man says. "I read the same thing in the newspaper this morning."

So did I, when I was stropping my knife.

More clapping.

Zandra gets hit with a flurry of questions. She places her fingers to her temples and feigns pain.

"I'm sorry, children, but I get severe headaches whenever I use my powers to such a degree," Zandra says. She scans the faces around her and notes how the yawning man is now missing. "Perhaps another time. Peace, love, and empathy to you all."

She stumbles away from the front desk and out the main door of the hotel. Sunglasses follows not far behind as Zandra heads for the white SUV.

Let's see if there's anything to the yawning man.

"Where to?" Sunglasses says. "And how did you do that? You know, for the sake of research."

It wasn't visions this time.

"Visions, child. It came in visions," Zandra says to Sunglasses. "We're going to save the person who wants to kill me some time and go straight to him. Got those invitations handy?"