Palm Sunday at The Mirage

Marcus sat across from the palm reader, her scarves smelling of incense and desperation. "You've been charging through life like a **bull** in a china shop," she said, tracing the lines on his hand. "But something's about to break."

He laughed, the sound hollow in the small tent. At forty-seven, he'd survived three corporate mergers, two divorces, and a heart attack that had felt more like inconvenience than warning. He was a **dog** chasing cars he couldn't drive—always running, never arriving.

The carnival lights flickered outside. His daughter's tenth birthday party was tomorrow. His ex-wife's new husband would be there—the man who'd made himself at home in the life Marcus had built and abandoned.

"There's a **fox** in your story," the palm reader continued, her fingers pressing into his skin. "Clever. Beautiful. Dangerous. You think you outsmarted her, but she's the one who got away."

Sarah. The name hit like a physical blow. Twenty years ago, he'd left her for a signing bonus and corner office. She'd warned him about the emptiness at the top. He'd chosen the ladder over the relationship.

"What do you see now?" he asked, voice cracking.

She turned his **palm** toward the light. "I see a man who won everything except what matters."

Marcus walked out into the cold night, the carnival spinning around him—colors blurred, sounds muffled, everything moving except him. For the first time in twenty years, he didn't know which way to run.