said. “I didn’t want to run the risk, you know, of seeing those headlights out the window.”
“I saw them,” Tony declared.
There were general noises of derision at this.
“No, really,” Tony said. “Through the window. I swear. It looked like they were floating over the lake.”
A heated discussion followed about whether or not Rob’s killer car could float, or if it had merely hovered over the lake.
Standing in line for the Polar Bear swim, I began to feel that things were not nearly so bleak as they’d seemed yesterday. For one thing, I’d had a good night’s sleep.
Really. I know that sounds surprising, considering that while I’d slept, my brain waves had apparently been bombarded with all this information about a five-year-old kid I had never met. On TV and in books and stuff, psychics always get this tortured look on their faces when they get a vision, like someone is jabbing them with a toothpick, or whatever. But that’s never happened to me. Maybe it’s because I only get my psychic visions while I sleep, but none of them have ever hurt.
The way I see it, it’s exactly like all those times you’ve been sitting there thinking to yourself, Gee, So-and-So hasn’t called in a while, and all of a sudden the phone rings, and it’s So-and-So. And you’re all, “Dude, I was just thinking about you,” and you laugh because it’s a big coincidence.
Only it’s not. It’s not a coincidence. That was the psychic part of your brain working, the part hardly any of us ever listens to, the part people call “intuition” or “gut feeling” or “instinct.” That’s the part of my brain that the lightning, when it struck me, sent all haywire. And that’s why I’m a receiver now for all sorts of information I shouldn’t have—like the fact that Taylor Monroe, who’d disappeared from a shopping center in Des Moines two years ago, was now living in Gainesville, Florida, with some people to whom he wasn’t even remotely related.
See, ordinary people—most everyone, really, even smart people, like Einstein and Madonna—use only three percent of their brain. Three percent! That’s all it takes to learn to walk and talk and make change and parallel park and decide which flavor of yogurt is your favorite.
But some people—people like me, who’ve been hit by lightning, or put into a sensory deprivation tank, or whatever—use more than their three percent. For whatever reason, we’ve tapped into the other ninety-seven percent of our brain.
And that’s the part, apparently, where all the good stuff is… .
Except that the only stuff I seem to have access to is the current address of just about every missing person in the universe.
Well, it was better than nothing, I guess.
But yeah, okay? In spite of the psychic vision thing, I’d slept great.
I don’t think the same could be said for my fellow campers—and their counselors. Ruth in particular looked bleary-eyed.
“My God,” she said. “They kept me up all night. They just kept yakking… .” Her blue eyes widened behind her glasses as she got a better look at me. I was in my bathing suit, just like my boys, with a towel slung around my own neck. “God, you’re not actually going
in
, are you?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” What else was I supposed to do? I was going to have to call Rosemary, as soon as I could get my hands on a phone. But that, I was pretty sure, wasn’t going to be for hours.
“You don’t have to,” Ruth said. “I mean, it’s just for the kids… .”
“Well, it’s not like I could take a shower this morning,” I reminded her. “Not with eight budding little sex maniacs around.”
Ruth looked from me to the bright blue water, sparkling in the morning sun. “Suit yourself,” she said. “But you’re going to smell like chlorine all day.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And who’s going to get close enough to smell me?”
We both looked over at Todd. He, too, was in a bathing suit. And looking very
“I saw them,” Tony declared.
There were general noises of derision at this.
“No, really,” Tony said. “Through the window. I swear. It looked like they were floating over the lake.”
A heated discussion followed about whether or not Rob’s killer car could float, or if it had merely hovered over the lake.
Standing in line for the Polar Bear swim, I began to feel that things were not nearly so bleak as they’d seemed yesterday. For one thing, I’d had a good night’s sleep.
Really. I know that sounds surprising, considering that while I’d slept, my brain waves had apparently been bombarded with all this information about a five-year-old kid I had never met. On TV and in books and stuff, psychics always get this tortured look on their faces when they get a vision, like someone is jabbing them with a toothpick, or whatever. But that’s never happened to me. Maybe it’s because I only get my psychic visions while I sleep, but none of them have ever hurt.
The way I see it, it’s exactly like all those times you’ve been sitting there thinking to yourself, Gee, So-and-So hasn’t called in a while, and all of a sudden the phone rings, and it’s So-and-So. And you’re all, “Dude, I was just thinking about you,” and you laugh because it’s a big coincidence.
Only it’s not. It’s not a coincidence. That was the psychic part of your brain working, the part hardly any of us ever listens to, the part people call “intuition” or “gut feeling” or “instinct.” That’s the part of my brain that the lightning, when it struck me, sent all haywire. And that’s why I’m a receiver now for all sorts of information I shouldn’t have—like the fact that Taylor Monroe, who’d disappeared from a shopping center in Des Moines two years ago, was now living in Gainesville, Florida, with some people to whom he wasn’t even remotely related.
See, ordinary people—most everyone, really, even smart people, like Einstein and Madonna—use only three percent of their brain. Three percent! That’s all it takes to learn to walk and talk and make change and parallel park and decide which flavor of yogurt is your favorite.
But some people—people like me, who’ve been hit by lightning, or put into a sensory deprivation tank, or whatever—use more than their three percent. For whatever reason, we’ve tapped into the other ninety-seven percent of our brain.
And that’s the part, apparently, where all the good stuff is… .
Except that the only stuff I seem to have access to is the current address of just about every missing person in the universe.
Well, it was better than nothing, I guess.
But yeah, okay? In spite of the psychic vision thing, I’d slept great.
I don’t think the same could be said for my fellow campers—and their counselors. Ruth in particular looked bleary-eyed.
“My God,” she said. “They kept me up all night. They just kept yakking… .” Her blue eyes widened behind her glasses as she got a better look at me. I was in my bathing suit, just like my boys, with a towel slung around my own neck. “God, you’re not actually going
in
, are you?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” What else was I supposed to do? I was going to have to call Rosemary, as soon as I could get my hands on a phone. But that, I was pretty sure, wasn’t going to be for hours.
“You don’t have to,” Ruth said. “I mean, it’s just for the kids… .”
“Well, it’s not like I could take a shower this morning,” I reminded her. “Not with eight budding little sex maniacs around.”
Ruth looked from me to the bright blue water, sparkling in the morning sun. “Suit yourself,” she said. “But you’re going to smell like chlorine all day.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And who’s going to get close enough to smell me?”
We both looked over at Todd. He, too, was in a bathing suit. And looking very
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