The Palm Reader's Warning

The baseball game droned on—bottom of the ninth, two outs, and Marcus still hadn't decided whether to disappear tonight or wait until morning. He'd been a corporate spy for twelve years, stealing trade secrets from pharmaceutical companies, and the weight of it sat in his chest like a tumor.

He watched the pitcher wipe sweat from his brow, then press the ball into his palm, gripping it like a lifeline. Marcus thought about the palm reader he'd visited in New Orleans, back when he still believed he had choices. She'd traced the lines on his hand and gone still.

"You'll be good at finding things," she'd said, not looking up. "But you'll lose yourself in the process."

He'd laughed, paid her forty dollars, and taken the job offer the next week.

Now here he was, sitting in section 214, alone, while the crowd roared around him. The batter connected—a crack like thunder—and the ball sailed into the lights. Marcus didn't cheer. He just watched it arc toward the stadium lights, thinking about how easy it would be to walk out of the gates and keep walking.

The woman beside him bumped his arm. "Exciting game?"

He looked at her—mid-thirties, wedding ring, exhausted eyes. He could lie. He was good at lying. Instead, he held out his hand, palm up.

"Read it," he said.

She laughed, confused. "What?"

"My palm. Tell me what you see."

She studied it for a long moment. The baseball game faded to background noise. "Your life line is... interrupted," she said softly. "Like something's been suspended. Waiting to restart."

Marcus stared at his hand. For the first time in twelve years, he thought maybe the palm reader had been wrong. Maybe he hadn't lost himself completely. Maybe he'd just been waiting for bottom of the ninth, two outs, with everything on the line.

"Thank you," he said, standing up. He didn't watch the final pitch. He walked toward the exit and didn't look back.