Summers we used to go down to Atlantic City and tell people their fortunes. Underneath the shade of lemon-trees a bunch of us would set up camp and wave passers-by over, and come they did, at first to escape the sun, but soon a flock, each with flushed faces and quivering mouths. What did they want from us, what were they like? Well, an old woman wanted to know if she would give birth: her face was thick and scarred, the drawings of a child playing with markers, but bold, like tire marks. We took many breaks as the spirits did not speak to us constantly but grew tired of our stream of questions. What a pleasant time, sitting on the beach and deciding what happens next. Does the girl get sacrificed after all, or will she escape to the Aegean in time? Does the mother kill the father when he gets home, or does she go back to the kitchen? We read so many palms that sometimes we got them confused. Every so often someone would go back home and marry the wrong person. After that we were quiet as starlings in a cage.