So Simon crept down the stairs, staying to the edge of the third step, the one that creaked in the middle, and slunk to the living room.

It only took a glance to see it wasn’t his Dad. His Dad didn’t normally wear a sleeping-cap with little pink flowers all over it. And the murmuring sound from the TV wasn’t McCoy yelling at Spock or Kirk rhapsodizing on free will or whatever, but the murmur of a television preacher selling God by the ounce. Simon was about to sneak away again, when he saw it.

Gram’s third eye was a light violet. It flickered like a novelty store plasma lamp. Its glance darted around, and then fixed right on Simon. As Simon examined it, it didn’t look much like an eye at all. But he knew what it was, alright. It was looking at him, and it wasn’t a camera, so it stood to reason it was an eye. Simon was only eight at the time, but he was a bright boy.

“You best get to bed, boy,” Gram said without turning her head around. Simon didn’t move, though. And then Gram said, “What’chu lookin’ at?”