“There goes that red car again,” spoke Leslie to Darla. “Must be stuck in a time loop.”
Leslie hesitated but then couldn’t resist. “57?” she guessed.
Darla turned. “33. Corn chips,” she explained.
“My daddy died at 33. Avalanche.”
“Switzerland?” Darla ventured, unable to think of any other location for such a phenomenon in the moment.
“Flavor,” countered Leslie. “Octopi balls,” she furthered. “Straight from a witch’s kitchen if you asked me.”
Darla also hesitated but couldn’t resist. “62?”
“Psychic!” Leslie exclaimed back. And that’s what Darla did for a living after that fated encounter in a bus stop in fabled John F. Kennedy City that hot day in May’s July’s August. Until the living ended. She had a packet in her purse even then but of course couldn’t resist. That’s always the story. Path of least resistance. Psychics are often the most vulnerable even though they can see the finale more clearly. It’s like a giant game they know they can’t win but play anyway. Throwing money away. Machines again, hmph. Chips, creatures: it’s all the same. Crushing them down to size.