The Call

“Psychic Sidekick,” Clara said, tired. “How can I heal you?”

The insincerity of it stung as much as usual. She’d write a new greeting, she promised herself. Something unexpected.

The caller said nothing. Maybe they were just as nauseated by those opening words. She’d try again.

“Hi there. I’m a psychic. I’ll do my best to help you make sense of your life. I can see bits and pieces of what’s coming to you, but I don’t promise to understand them any better than you will. Maybe together we can find some meaning.”

Except, she wasn’t seeing any bits or pieces. There wasn’t anything in her head, though she’d emptied it, carefully, as she’d learned. No tiny buds of thoughts flowering in from the edges, as dreams did, shot from the pons into the middle of the visual cortex – or so the lab tech’d told her when she went for her first readings to get a handle on what was happening.

Here, nothing. Not a stem of something.

Clara leaned forward to check her mic.

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