Gerald had always felt like an outcast at the annual Psychic Fair — mostly because he was the only one whose predictions kept coming true. Everyone else was vague. "I see a journey in your future," they'd say, or "A loved one sends warm feelings." Gerald, meanwhile, would look at someone's palm and announce, "You're going to spill soup on your boss in exactly eleven minutes."
He was always right. Nobody liked that.
This year, Gerald set up his booth between Madame Zelda and a man named Kevin who claimed to speak with houseplants. Kevin was currently having an intense argument with a fern.
"The frond is telling me you have unresolved issues with your mother," Kevin announced to a confused customer.
"It's a fern," the customer said.
"A very perceptive fern."
Gerald shook his head and turned back to his own queue. His first customer sat down, a nervous woman clutching her purse.
"So," she said breathlessly, "are you truly psychic?"
Gerald gazed at her palm for exactly three seconds. "You left your car running."
She blinked. Then her eyes went wide. She bolted from the chair, knocking over Kevin's fern in the process.
Kevin gasped. "Gerald! The frond!"
The fern hit the floor. Kevin clutched his chest dramatically. "It says you did that on purpose."
"I predicted that too," Gerald said calmly, pulling a crumpled sticky note from his pocket.
It read: Kevin will accuse you of fern murder at 2:47 PM.
It was 2:47 PM.
Nobody ever shared the refreshment table with Gerald, but honestly, he'd seen that coming years ago.