Cam wrapped fishing line around her index finger. She slid its small spool onto a dowel attached to a towering oak bookshelf. Like all the other pieces in the room, this was the kind of furniture that looked as though it had met your ancestors and shared their disappointment in you. Cam unraveled enough fishing line to cross the windowless den in which she’d staged two-hundred and forty-seven educational seances. Number two-hundred and forty-eight wouldn’t take place for another three days. She wanted to run a test.

An antique wardrobe against the right wall contained a small and simple mechanism with another spindle attached, this one empty. Cam brought the fishing line here and wound it securely around the spindle. She closed the wardrobe and stepped lightly around the room, checking the scene from several angles. She paid special mind to the view from the round pedestal table and its six oak pressback chairs. Satisfied, Cam returned to the bookshelf and cut a length of line sufficient to thread through a subtle notch in one of the thinner books. She tucked the little spool away in the pocket she’d sewn onto her oversized sweater.

The door opened behind her. Cam started, “I think I like the new…” but saw a short white man with wavy blonde hair standing stiffly straight where she expected to find her lanky, slouching friend.

Hand raised in apology, the newcomer said, “I thought this was the exit.”

“Happens all the time. You must be Oliver,” she greeted him. Cam spoke at a low volume, her raspy voice ever steady and warm. Her crooked smile fought to imply a predilection for mischief against her arrestingly kind eyes. 

Oliver put on a professional air. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. I’m Cam. I run most of the sessions.”

“Well, don’t let me interrupt your work,” he said, withdrawing.

“Not at all- please,” Cam offered him entrance into the room with a light wave of her hand. “Want to see what we do? If you have a minute.”

A look of genuine excitement broke through whatever nerves remained after his job interview. “Can I?”

Producing a lighter from the back pocket of her denim shorts, Cam said, “Get the lights.” She set to work on the half dozen candles spread evenly around the room as Oliver fumbled with the light switch and closed the door.

“Y’all really have the vibe down here.”

“When your eyes adjust, join me at the table,” Cam said, seating herself on the far end.

Oliver’s foot caught the edge of the vintage red rug spread under the table, and he stumbled to his chair with a self-deprecating chuckle. Cam reached out to light the final three candles held in silver candelabra between them. 

“You must go through a lot of candles,” Oliver said.

Cam confirmed with a friendly hum, her eyes locked on his. “People love the showmanship. We do have to be careful of flowing sleeves, though.” She gestured as she spoke, waving an arm well above the flames.

“Have you ever had someone…?” He looked equal parts thrilled and concerned.

“Only me,” Cam replied. They shared a laugh, but before Oliver could press for details, she said, “The spirits tell me they expected you at another time. Did something happen?”

“Another time?”

“Yes, but it’s unclear. Were you planning to come earlier or later?”

He shifted in his seat. “I put off applying a couple of times. Just life stuff got in the way. Do you ask everyone that question?” 

“Most everyone! Hardly anything goes exactly to plan. People change their minds, hesitate, get caught in traffic. Of course, if a client has rescheduled or is running late, I take that question out of the lineup. Not very mysterious under those circumstances. And if they did come here at exactly the time they always intended, it’s just a fun seed to plant. We can always find a way to make it grow later in the session.” 

“You must be very good at improv,” Oliver observed.

“Thank D&D. Now. Why don’t you tell me about John?”

“John?” Even in the dim and flickering light, his eyes telegraphed an arc of confusion turned to surprise turned to calculation. “Right. Because everyone knows someone named John.”

“You get it,” Cam encouraged him. “Most Americans will at least know of someone named John.”

“But what do you say if I tell you I don’t know any?”

“Then I say, ah, but you do. You just don’t know their significance yet. You will soon.” Cam settled into her chair, relaxing, and watched for Oliver to relax as well. “Striking gold is always a treat, but it’s even more fun when I don’t. I encourage the client to think about it. Maybe their dad loved The Beatles, or they went into political science because of Jon Stewart. Whatever they bring up, they’re the one who chose it as potentially significant, and I can get a lot out of mileage out of that.”

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“Were those real examples?”

“They were! It’s important to keep in mind, too, that I have it easy here. I’m not trying to convince our clients of anything. I just show them how it happens to other people. Like you, they tend to know better. We work together to understand what makes these tricks effective.” Oliver leaned back and let his shoulders slacken. Her eyes crinkling in delight, Cam said, “Really though, tell me about John.”

“My uncle,” Oliver replied at length. 

“A more complicated man than people think. What would you say in response to that?” 

At the sound of two sharp knocks, Oliver looked to Cam’s hands, spread innocently on the table palms-down. 

“Old building,” she offered with the slightest turn in her smile.

“Heh. Is someone hiding in that cabinet?”

“No, but we have done that before. Good guess! Go on about your uncle.”

“He was complicated, sure. I don’t know. Isn’t everyone?” He sounded uncertain.

“Yes, definitely. That’s one of the foundational elements of cold reading. Observations that, with a little squinting, could apply to pretty much anyone. People who want to believe will latch on to these vague statements as proof that the psychic knows more than they should be able to. Some will even misremember the psychic as saying something far more specific than they actually did. They’ll substitute what they heard with what they know to be true because, like I said, they want to believe.”

“That’s wild. How did you learn all this?”

“Child of a cult,” she said, winking. Oliver didn’t seem to know what to make of the statement. “Fascinating stuff, isn’t it? So, as you said, I could have been talking about anyone, not just your uncle. Though I will say I have found southern men to be more complicated than most.”

Cam watched his confused amusement fade into concentration. She assumed he was considering his tell— not his resume, which didn’t list any jobs or education in the south, nor his accent, squarely General American. Before he could pin down the charming y’all he had slipped into their conversation earlier, a book flew from the shelf and sent Oliver leaping from the table with a yelp.

Cam clapped. “It worked!”

“Please tell me that wasn’t pulled by a string,” he groaned, all in good humor. “Please, tell me I didn’t just fall for a string.”

“You’ve got a great instinct for this. Austin set up the mechanism,” Cam said with pride. “We’ll have to move the table over, though. Came a little too close for comfort with the candles.”

The door opened and Cam’s aforementioned pale, lanky friend looked in. “All right?”

“We’re fine, Birch. Oliver was helping me test the new equipment. Have you met?”

The two exchanged familiar nods as Birch said, “You’re not putting him to work already?”

“I just wanted to see some of the show.” Oliver gave Birch his professional smile. “I should get going, though. It was great to meet you.”

Offering their own polite farewell, Birch stepped aside to let Oliver exit, then turned on the lights. “You didn’t scare him, right?”

“Not at all,” Cam reassured them. She found their concern for Oliver touching. “Your hair’s gotten so long,” she added. “It’s magnificent.”

Birch ran a hand through their thick black hair, following its flow down to their shoulder. “You’re sweet. You’ve been rocking that color, by the way.”

Cam agreed with a bright, “Yes!” She patted her brunette bob, pleased with herself. She kept her hair buzzed nearly to the skin and took great joy in swapping out wigs every few weeks. “I usually like to go bright and bold, but it matches my eyes.”

“I was going to say!” 

“Is Cam starting another compliment train?” Cheap trick engineer Austin came into the room. “Can I join?”

Their one-man marketing department, Seo Jun, followed him inside, rounding out the team— for the moment. 

“What did you think of Oliver?” Cam asked Austin.

“Seemed fine.”

“You should hire him.” She rested her chin in her hand. “He’s a believer.”

Seo Jun said, “I didn’t think professional skeptics hired believers.”

“We’re only debunking the fake psychics, not the real ones.” Through a lifetime of practice, Cam had perfected the art of striking a tone that could either be joking or completely serious. The part of her that wanted to believe and the part of her that couldn’t worked in tandem, presenting a perfect facade of both simultaneously.

She realized with a disappointed click of her tongue, “I didn't get to explain the knocks.” Cam stretched out her leg and cracked her toe knuckle, producing the same sharp rapping from before. It was one of her favorite stories: how the Fox sisters had helped to spark an entire Spiritualist movement in the mid-1800s with the power of popping knuckles. 

“Alas.” Birch caught sight of the fallen book. “That looks a little close to the candles.”

Cam signified her agreement with a hum, and together they set about moving the chairs further from the bookshelf. Seo Jun snuffed out the remaining candles and then helped them carry the table.

Meanwhile, Austin opened the antique wardrobe. “Did the rig make any noise when you activated it?”

“Couldn’t hear a thing. Want to see?”

“Go ahead.”

Cam slipped her foot under the table and pressed a discreet button installed at its base. The book flew another two feet toward the wardrobe.

“Very cool,” Seo Jun said.

“You sure you didn’t scare him?”

“He loved it, Birch. And I didn’t even pull out the advanced tricks.”

With a look of preemptive apology, Seo Jun said, “I don’t think you realize how scary you are.”

“Just because people get scared doesn’t mean I’m scary.”

“I don’t follow that at all,” Austin cut in, “but never mind. The phone’s ringing.”

“Got it,” Cam volunteered, hurrying out of the room to the main office.