The doomsayers crowded the corners but between them there was no agreement. NEW YORK WILL DROWN, read one sign. NUCLEAR WAR 10/21/35, said another. Still others mentioned plagues, droughts, assassinations, but no one took them seriously. Everyone knew the really successful prophets were behind paywalls. As a child everyone had called her Breezy. But in college, one of her professors pulled her aside and told her to ditch the nickname. Since college she'd done nothing in particular. Tried teaching children at a preschool and generally liked it, though she got angry sometimes, and finally the pay (or lack thereof) drove her back to the coffee shop where she still worked, five years later. Now she was convinced, suddenly, that she'd found her hidden talent. "I was thinking of trying forecasting," she told Jared that evening as they were readying for bed. He frowned. "You mean a personal reading? Half of those fortune tellers are bogus, you know. Just frauds. And even if you find a real one, it won't necessarily help you. I was talking with Ignacio at work the other day, and he— " "I don't mean my forecast," she interrupted. "I mean doing it professionally. Going in for an audition." He looked at her like she'd announced she was going to get a tattoo of an asshole on her forehead. "Those people are crazy drug addicts. You didn't see them downtown this afternoon? The world’s gonna burn!’ and that stuff." She rolled her eyes. "Sure, except for Maisie Spence, and Virtuoso, and all the corporate forecasters you don't even hear about." "They’re still addicts, Breezy," he argued. "They're just better at keeping it under control." "Don't call me that," she said. She had wanted to tell him about the dream she’d had, about the Statue of Liberty and the wave engulfing the city, but he kept at it and finally she acted like she agreed. — On Friday, she sent Jared a text saying she was going out with some friends, and went instead to an office building in lower Manhattan. She had tied her hair back severely for the occasion, seeking a more professional look. The building was a rectangular monolith unbroken by ornament, a black fist striking the face of November. She took an elevator to the fifty-third floor, where she took a number and waited with several others, all believing they had some inkling of what was to come. "I saw you," one woman confided to her. She had yellowish skin, body lumpish under layers of sweaters, scarves, coats. "When?" Brianna asked. The woman smiled like she knew a secret. Her teeth were bad, her gums a disturbing dark bruised color. "In the winter. You're running on the beach." "I like beaches." "You're running away from something. Running for your life." It could be true. Obviously someone here thought this woman had talent, and by the wild light in her eyes she certainly believed what she was saying. "Do I make it?" The woman's smile fell, and suddenly she looked angry. "I don't know. I'm not God. You take what you're given, don't you, no matter how much purp you got, you can't see everything, and even if you do, you can't take it with you. No one can remember all that, and anyway there's always the big ones at the top fucking with things. Even if you see something you don't know that they won't change it. You're just— " "Celia Hayes," the receptionist called from the doorway, and the woman stopped mid-rant, put her mad smile back on and stood up. Brianna wondered if they'd called her just to shut her up. A guy sitting across from her gave her a sympathetic look. He had very dark, smooth skin, shaved head and face. Neatly dressed in tan slacks, blue button-up shirt and red sweater, but cheap, like he'd bought it all from a Goodwill rack. "Purplemouth," he said. "Sorry?" "PRP addict," he enunciated. Something Caribbean in his accent. He shook his head. "I'm surprised they let her in here at all, but maybe she had some talent once." He rubbed his chin, musing. "Doesn't matter. They're not going to take her." Brianna glanced back at the doorway. "Why not?" He looked off to one side. "She's going to die next Wednesday." Brianna frowned. "Are you serious?" "Yes." "How do you know?" He shrugged, a little helplessly. "I dreamed it." "What, does she overdose?" "No. Brain tumor." He didn't seem crazy, she thought. Actually very calm. With a burst of inner enthusiasm she suddenly felt that this could be real, and understood that until then she hadn't really believed, had been unconsciously on the side of the skeptics. Now she thought dizzily, I could actually see the future. "What's your name?" "Damay." "Brianna." She offered her hand and he took it and smiled. "I know," he said. — The doctor she saw after the tests, Dr. Braun, looked to be in his midforties, with weathered skin and light reddish hair and eyebrows. With the pleased air of someone delivering good news, he said, "So it looks good." "Oh!" Her eyes widened. “So ... good is good, right?" "Yes! You're very healthy, psychologically stable, no problems on that front. And your neurological profile, what we'd call your prognostic profile, is very promising. I could try to explain it to you, but honestly unless you have an advanced degree in neuroscience it'll be a bunch of gobbledegook. Suffice to say, we like your profile, and would like to begin the clinical phase." "What does that mean?" "Basically, you'll be taken to another room, and given a small amount of prognostisone perzisec. We'll monitor your responses, and afterwards ask you a series of questions about your experience." They were actually talking about it. PRP. The Purp, Purple Dragon, Purple Rain, Purple Haze, the Purple People Eater. "When?" she squeaked.
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