The Monty Hall(way) Problem

Ivy and Jade guide the attendees down to the lounge for post-dinner drinks. Zandra lingers while Curd Queen crew clear the dinner service. She strolls to the railing and lights up.

"Plenty of apples left if you want one. They'll keep the doctor away," a crew member says from behind Zandra. He wheels a cart with fruit gathered from the edible centerpieces.

Zandra shakes her head.

The crew member shrugs and wheels on by.

Zandra coughs into her sleeve and tries to ignore what dislodges into the purple fabric. She's been ignoring it since her trip to the hospital. Now is a good time for a distraction.

Apples, eh?

Say the word "fruit" and what's the first thing that comes to mind? Chances are very good it's an apple, at least around here. Maybe a banana.

What about "vegetable?" Chances are you thought of a carrot. A tomato might be a close second, but technically that's fruit. Not that anyone sincerely gives a shit about that other than to sound smart.

Zandra peeks at the stain on her sleeve, then stops.

The mind runs on shortcuts. It allows a person to get through a day without overthinking. Concepts associate with symbols out of both convenience and necessity. It's quicker to think of a carrot than every single vegetable. The carrot is a placeholder, like X in algebra.

These shortcuts come with a cost. They make you vulnerable to fallacies. And if you know the right fallacy to use at the right time, you can leverage that shortcut to your advantage.

That brings us to counterintuitive statistics.

Zandra calls out to the crew member with the apples. He comes back, rolling the cart along.

"Change your mind?" he says.

"No, but I wanted to ask you about weather, child," Zandra says.

"Yeah, go for it."

"I'm planning a trip after this event is over," Zandra says, lying but doing a good job at selling the lie, as usual. "The place I'm going, there is a 25 percent chance of rain each day. I'll be there for four days. Tell me, child, should I pack an umbrella? You see, I don't have an umbrella, and I'll need to buy one right away if it's going to rain at all on my trip. I don't want to be stuck indoors."

Like the cart with the apples, the crew member rolls with the question. He says, "Twenty-five percent? Nah, I wouldn't worry about it. There's a 75 percent chance it won't rain."

Zandra forces a smile and nods. "Thank you. I just wanted to talk it through with someone."

"No problem. You sure you don't want an apple?" the crew member says.

He's really pushing these apples hard.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I've got my own," Zandra says and raises her cigarette.

The crew member wishes Zandra a good evening and leaves. Zandra listens to the creak of the cart and drags on the cigarette.

He's no idiot. He's just a regular person doing what regular people do. And he's wrong about the umbrella.

Here's how not to be a regular person: know that a 25 percent chance of rain spread out over four days means it will rain on one of the four days. It's a weighted average.

In her mind, Zandra re-enacts the matching birthdays during the cold reading. She recalls how Jade said the odds of two people having the same birthday were, "One in 365."

Sounds logical on the surface, but it's just another shortcut. The odds are better than one in 365. Much, much better.

Try 96 percent.

Zandra smiles to herself from behind the cigarette. She can't help it.

All I had to do was go to the table in the middle and tell the mark that someone nearby had the same birthday. The middle table was surrounded by other tables. The odds were on my side.

The odds would be even better if there were 75 people instead of 50. Then the chance of matching birthdays would be basically guaranteed.

The trick is that most people think about matching their own birthday to someone else. That's only one scenario. You need to crunch weigh all the people in the room, and all possible birthday matches.

So, 96 percent. Don't ask me to show the math here. I only know the right answers. The point is that the wrong answer—one in 365—is a symptom of narcissism. And that makes it a perfect opportunity for someone with the right presentation.

But if you really want a mindfuck, the Monty Hall Problem is—

A hard cough interrupts Zandra's train of thought. She leans over the railing to let a long, oozing glob meander from her mouth down to the water. She can't help but notice the flecks of blood mixed into the phlegm. Her heart races.

Musing on math isn't going to cut it anymore. Time for a new distraction.

Zandra drags her bad ankle down the stairs to the lounge. The bar sings with ice and glass, and pDano® literally sings at a karaoke machine.

There isn't enough alcohol in that bar to put up with listening to that.

Zandra makes her way through harried crew and attendees struggling to hold conversations over pDano®'s bold interpretations of what constitutes singing. Zandra feels a tug on her arm as she lumbers past a semi-circle of attendees. It's Cherry Peach with a watermelon cocktail.

"Thanks for that," Cherry Peach says in Zandra's ear.

"I hope it helps," Zandra says.

"I think it did. Look who isn't here," Cherry Peach says.

Zandra scans the room.

No Aaron.

"I'm going to bed. Don't drink too many of those things," Zandra says.

"Oh, there's no liquor in it. Just looks like it," Cherry Peach says. "I don't like dulling my awareness around strangers."

You're the smartest one here. Did the birthday match trick get past you?

Cherry Peach slips back into the crowd. Zandra watches her for a moment longer. Cherry Peach dives right back into a conversation with a couple attendees without missing a beat. They laugh when she laughs.

Yes.

Very smart.

Knows how to work people.

Zandra stuffs a sleeve in front of a fresh cough.

Even other smart people.

Zandra's eyes fall to Cherry Peach's purse. Despite the animated conversation, Cherry Peach makes a point to keep the purse steady at her side. She brushes her fingers against the purse a few times every minute. It's brief, and the attendees would never catch it, but Zandra does.

The pistol.

pDano® relinquishes the karaoke machine to someone with a sense of pitch. Zandra uses the pause to make her exit. Bexley tries to flag her down, but Zandra keeps her eyes to the floor.

After a slow descent down the stairs, Zandra makes her way back to Cabin 27. It's early in the event, but already the smell of vomit and alcohol hint into the air of the hallways.

"Turning in early?" Aaron says as he keys the door to his cabin.

Zandra stops in her unbalanced tracks.

Is anyone else nearby? Anyone who could help if this gets ugly?

Zandra runs a hand along her sleeve. Her palm feels the sheath of the lawnmower knife.

I'll have to settle for this.

Zandra remains mum.

"Thanks for the reading back there," Aaron says, filling the awkward space between them.

The smell of vomit isn't strong, but it is more pronounced in this stretch of hallway.

"You feeling alright?" Zandra says, and not in a caring way.

"Yeah, why? Oh, right. That smell. Someone's already having a rough time," Aaron says.

"They sure are."

Silence. They stare at each other.

The boat isn't swaying, but Aaron is still shifting his weight back and forth on his legs. He isn't in prime shape anymore, but he's still athletic, and he knows how to hold a strong posture. It comes as second nature. That means he's off his baseline.

He's nervous.

And that makes two of us.

Aaron cuts the silence with the creak of the door to his cabin. He turns to Zandra before going inside. "I'll try not to snore."

Zandra responds with a single nod. After the door closes, she hurries to Cabin 27 and locks herself inside. Working as quietly as she can given her ankle, Zandra grabs the shower stool from the tub in the bathroom. She places it beneath the vent and steps up. The extra height helps her listen to Aaron.

It's silent.

I wonder if he's doing the same thing.

The air conditioning kicks on, masking any noise from the two cabins. Zandra returns the shower stool to the tub, and then uses it for its intended purpose.

After the shower, Zandra gets comfortable in the Murphy bed. She counts her heartbeats until the palpitations cool off and she drifts off to sleep.

Her sleep may have started peacefully, but it doesn't end that way.

When she wakes, Zandra is standing in the hallway outside Cabin 27. The lawnmower knife is in her hand. Someone is shaking her and saying something about blood.

What just happened?