Good Omens

Another day would only bring more tired weakness, and send her back into herself; there was nothing good outside she could see. People would yell at her, her boss would berate her for a simple mistake, and she would spend the night in her small, hot room waiting for the darkness so she could slip into a dream. She liked her dreams, but they made the world seem dark by comparison.

    Christina Peters sat up in her thin bed clothes, turning away in revulsion as the hot air rising off the street into her fifth floor apartment curled in the window. The window, opened to coax cool air in during the night, now betrayed her and let in the morning heat she had grown to hate. Honks and yells from the street under her window woke her up before her alarm.
    Her fridge offered some release from the hot air, but didn't much help her growling stomach; it was nearly empty. There were cheese slices, a few pieces of bread, and sporadic condiments.
    She ate a disgusting mustard-and-cheese sandwich, got dressed for work, and stepped out of her apartment. The hallway smelled like something had crawled inside its own behind and died, and Christina clamped her nose shut with her free hand. She wanted to go down the elevator, but it was broken, as it always seemed to be. She hurried past the door on the third floor, which contained a man that had once tried to grab her as she went past. She had slapped him with a bundle of celery and run as fast as her skirt would let her.
    Now on the ground floor, she pushed open the door and walked into the burning sun. Summer pumped its heat through the city and held back the rain just, it seemed, to torment Christina.
    She got on the white city bus a few blocks from her building and sat with her purse on her lap, head down and not looking at anyone. The stories of things people could do on buses -- or after leaving one -- made her shiver and sweat and she was already sweating so much. She tucked an errant strand of frizzy hair away as the bus pulled to her stop.
    She just avoided being late, a sin that her boss Mr. Johns took to be the highest. She punched in and looked at her assignment for that day. The restaurant never got too busy until later in the day, but it was a hot and tiring job that left her pits wet with sweat and her shoulders aching. The restaurant served fried food and alcohol, mostly. There were other things as well, but they never seemed to get ordered.
    And today ended up being a busier day than normal. More people came in -- not exactly a bad thing, because it usually meant more tips -- but they weren't the easy kind of customer, those that order simple things and don't cause trouble, and laugh off the mistakes she would make and drop a five or a ten down. One of them had allergies that needed to be taken into account, another spilled a drink over the floor and ordered Christina to clean it up, as well as demanding another drink. Most of them only left a few dollars for tips, but Christina was still able to take home twenty dollars by the time evening had reached them and the sun was perched at the edge of the street, drilling hot rays down the street.
    After clocking out she counted the money she had. She stuck most of it deep into the pocket of her uniform and put the rest in her purse. The clock said that she had twenty-five minutes until the next bus came.
    She went to the grocery store down the block and picked up as much as the remaining money would let her. The teller mumbled a hello as he scanned her items, but Christina didn't respond.
    She just caught the bus on the way back, but dropped her bus pass as she stepped on. She felt the burning gazes of the driver and the other passengers as she bent and retrieved it, awkwardly shifting her bundle of groceries to the other hand. After scanning her pass she sat and clutched her groceries.
    She got inside her building a few minutes later and went up the stairs, groaning with each step. On the third floor she inched along, wincing as each step creaked.
    Her apartment boiled. She stripped off her clothes and packed away her groceries, looking with some relief at the replenished refrigerator. She ate a little bit and counted her money again.
    It was a week until the rent was due, and unless a great big moneybags man walked into the restaurant and left a hundred-dollar bill on his table, she would be short.
    She went to bed later that night, waiting to dream about a world where she couldn't be kicked out of her home and where every day wasn't the same.

The next day was not the same. Christina got up at the same time to shut the window and keep the oppressive heat out, ate slightly better than the day before, and left her apartment to catch the bus at the same time.
    But she got to the street and something seemed off. Lights seemed brighter, for one thing. It looked like people and things moved slower. They didn't really, not if she concentrated, but there was some new gliding motion attached to the walks of the people that went by her. She would have attributed these things to a headache but she felt fine. Good, in fact. The bus driver smiled at her, and the seats were mostly empty, allowing her to lower her defenses the slightest bit.
    The bus driver was muttering something under his breath. "I can't believe it. It's wonderful. It's just what I wanted." Christina peered around to try and get a better look at what he was looking at, but she couldn't see. It must have been on his lap.
    The box that he held was brown with a green ribbon.
    Box? Ribbon? Christina shook her head. She remembered the bus driving carrying something, a gift. He must have had it with him when she got on, and she didn't notice.
    The bus slid to a halt in front of her stop. She got up and paused before exiting.
    "What was it you got?" She asked the bus driver. He looked at her with a confused look. She looked back with the same kind.
    "I . . . haven't gotten anything," the bus driver said. Christina wrinkled her brow, embarrassed
    "I'm sorry, I thought you were holding a present." She didn't wait for his response, instead stepping off the bus and hurrying to the restaurant, refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead, feeling the legion gaze of the bystanders.
    She got into the restaurant with a minute to spare, and clocked in quickly. She got to work and managed to forget about the bus driver. It was an uneventful day, aside from the chipped glass that left another server's hand bleeding. Christina bandaged the cut, and while she did the other waitress, whose name was Theresa, talked.
    "I just don't know if he'll ever get the hint," Theresa said, about her long-time boyfriend. "What's it been, two years? I don't know if he'll ever ask me to marry him. I wish he would." She scoffed, and her hand bounced up and down, forcing Christina to slow down. "If he doesn't soon, I'm giving him an ultimatum."
    "A what?" Christina asked. "I think your hand is the best I can get it."
    "An ultimatum. You know! Either he asks me to marry him or I dump him!" Theresa said as she inspected the wrap. "It'll do."
    "Don't you think that's kind of mean?" Christina asked, packing away the medical supplies.
    "Not to me! I've got a ticking clock here! You might have plenty of time! What, what are you, twenty?"
    "Twenty-five."
    "I've got six years on you! I won't look this good forever!"
    Mr. Johns poked his  head around the corner into the break room. "Stitched up? Good! Get out there and get to work! I don't pay you to stand around!"
    Christina tucked an escaping hair away and walked back into the customer area with her head down, trying not to draw Mr. Johns' ire. As she went by, she remembered something that Mr. Johns had said earlier, when he was on the phone. Something about a recovery.
    "Was somebody in your family sick, Mr. Johns?" She asked as she began to load the dishwasher. It was afternoon.
    He turned on her. "What?! How did you find that out?"
    She quailed. "You were on the phone! You said something about somebody getting better!"
    "My wife! Has! Cancer!" He yelled at her. The customer area seemed too quiet. "And no she isn't better, she could die!"
    "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I must have misheard!"
    "You're goddamn right you did! Get out of here!"
    Christina ran from the dishwasher and into the kitchen, where meals appeared ready for serving. She hurried to the table they belonged to and set them down in front of an old couple that were familiar faces in the restaurant.
    "You should learn to keep your ears to yourself," the woman, Mrs. Bowerfield, said. She levered up the top piece of bread on her sandwich with her knife. "You know how he gets."
    "Erma, now now," Mr. Bowerfield said, tucking his napkin under his chin. "You of all people."
    "I thought he would be happy! I thought somebody had gotten better!"
    "Can't trust your ears? George knows the feeling," Erma said. "He can't hear a dern thing I say. Isn't that right, George?"
    "Eh?"
    "Have a nice meal," Christina said. She felt beaten and tired, and went to another table to take drink orders. She still had about four hours left on her shift. Another table was clearing out, and she handed them their checks.
    Three hours passed, and she felt better. The restaurant was empty, so she kept herself busy cleaning the place. Theresa left and a young man named Brad took her place. There was only a small segment of an hour left when she went into the break room to find Mr. Johns with his head in his hands. She knew he heard her; she didn't try to disguise her steps, but she knew something had happened that she didn't want to be around for. He would make her a target for his aggression.
    "I just got off the phone," he said before she could creep away. "My wife was in for an appointment today. Her cancer's gone into remission."
    Christina, not knowing exactly what remission meant, waited for the explosion. Of course that would happen the day that she asked him who had gotten better.
    Her boss looked up at her. "Do you know what this means?" She shook her head, eyes wide. "It means she might just be able to see our daughter get married." This confused Christina. "And somehow you knew that she would get better."
    Christina relaxed. "No, I must have misheard you when you were talking on the phone earlier."
    Mr. Johns studier her. "I've only been on the phone once today. Just now."
    They looked at each other and Christina remembered the bus driver. She rubbed her head. "But . . . I remember you talking on the phone. I'm sure I do."
    "I don't know what you remember." He paused. "Why don't you clock out early? You look like you could use a little more rest."
    "If it's all the same to you Mr. Johns, I need the money more," she said. He shrugged and nodded.
    Fifteen minutes later she waited for the bus to pull up. This was a different driver than the one she saw every morning, so she stepped in and sat in a seat by herself. She was tired and slightly confused by what had happened. She knew she saw Mr. Johns talking on the phone in the back before Theresa cut her hand.
    But she realized she didn't know when, not exactly. There was a range she could put it in, but no associated time, no surrounding events that she could use to pin it to a time line. It was as if the memory appeared after the fact without her actually seeing it happen.
    She felt dizzy.
    The bus halted at her stop and she dismounted, taking slow steps toward her building.
    Inside were a couple from the floor above her, two younger adults, Mr. and Mrs. Mohand, with a some months old baby held by the mother.
    Christina saw it clearly. It was in another place, another time. This mother, black and fresh and happy, holding her arms as the baby left its father's guiding grip, teetering on unsteady legs towards a mother's hug. As if through water the sounds came, echoing and distorted. The mother's mouth opened, unable to contain the smile that threatened to crack open her head. Christina heard, slurred, "Come on! You can do it!" And the baby was at her, toothless mouth wide, copying mother's ecstatic expression. Father joined them and picked the baby up, carrying it high into the air. It emitted a warbling, piercing shriek.
    Christina put her hands on her ears and she was back in the lobby of her building. The Mohands climbed the stairs away from her, conversing. Neither of them had noticed her. The baby, on the other hand, was gazing back at her as she gripped her mother's shoulder. Christina smiled and waved, and the baby sent a clumsy wave back just as they rounded the corner.
    Christina ran to her room and ate. Her lunch had been a hurried salad from the deli down the block from the restaurant, and her stomach growled at her as she sat down at her table with a bowl of pasta in front of her. She stared at the pasta for a few minutes.
    She was seeing things, things that hadn't happened yet. How old was the Mohands' little girl? Almost a year? Christina didn't know when a baby started to walk on its own, but she figured the baby could be near the right age.
    And the bus driver. What if she was just imagining things? Had she hit her head recently? No, nothing.
    She could believe that she was just imagining things if not for Mr. Johns' wife. He hadn't been on the phone but once, when he found out that his wife had gone into -- Christina concentrated -- remission. Not only did she not know that his wife had cancer, but to get the idea that she was miraculously healed wasn't something she could imagine herself doing.
    She went to bed without answers.

The next night she went to bed with two answers and more questions. The answer was yes: yes she could see things.
    When she got on the bus the driver stopped her. "My wife gave me two tickets to Wrigley Saturday night. The Yankees are playing the Mets. I've always wanted to go but never could. How did you know? Did my wife tell you?"
    Christina shook her head. "It must have been a lucky guess," she said, and then ran to the seats. Later, in the restaurant, Mr. Johns was happy, elated. Work was easy without his specter breathing down her neck.
    And it happened again. This time it was when she was serving the Bowerfields. She saw Erma and George celebrating in their geriatric manner, making slow turns in each others' arms, singing "we got in, we got in, we got in!"
    And without hesitation, the question of what they had gotten in to became the second answer she had.
    "We're thinking of applying to one of those homes," Erma told Christina as she refilled their coffee. "We don't want to put Marge and her husband out any longer. We found a nice one, not too expensive. It's very nice but-" she lowered her eyes "-It's quite exclusive."
    "We aren't sure if we can get in. It takes a deposit, too, which we won't get back if we're denied," George said. "It's not a great sum, a few hundred, but-"
    "I wouldn't want to lose a few hundred dollars," Christina cut in, excited and scared. "But I think you should go for it. Would . . . would you still be able to visit here?"
    "Well, not as often. But we'd make the trip to see you and the others, dear. On occasion," Erma said.
    "It'll be nice to get out and about," George said. "I think this catsup is empty." Just then the red bottle he held spout down dribbled a weak flow onto his pants. "Oh damn!"
    "George! Those are your best blues! Could we have some napkins, Christina? Eugh, it's going to look like George's pecker's bleeding!" Christina turned away, blushing. She grabbed a dozen napkins and handed them over, then went on with her duties.
    The Bowerfields left twenty minutes later, arguing about the pants. Christina had watched them go with a feeling she couldn't place, one that felt like sad and happy mixed in a bowl.
    When she got home from work, she found Mrs. Mohand in the lobby talking on her phone about how Emily had taken her first steps the night before. Christina watched her collect her mail and go up the steps, staring in wonder.
    And now Christina lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The hot, humid air stuck her undershirt to her skin as she lay above the covers. She could see things. They hadn't happened yet, they might not even happen around her, but she knew they would happen. She couldn't see everything, though. She hadn't seen Theresa cut her hand, or George Bowerfield spill catsup. Everything she had seen in a vision had been . . . a good thing.
    She felt bumps rise, flushing her already hot skin. She had developed some sort of unknown ability to see things, and fear hit her. Would she see a tragedy occur?
    The bus driver getting a present he wanted. Mr. Johns' wife healed. Emily Mohand walking for the first time. The Bowerfields 'getting in.' Not a single thing out of that list could even be called close to a tragedy. They had all been wonderful things that made people smile.
    She wondered if the ability would change or shift. Maybe it would stop soon. She didn't know if that was something she wanted. To see the future . . . an incredible power. But only when the people in the vision were happy.
    She rolled to her side and fell asleep.

The next day was mercifully cooler. It had a stiff wind that made headlong travel difficult, but people ignored it, instead taking solace in the lower temperature. Fine clouds covered the sky, diluting the sun's rays.
    Christina awoke for the first time in weeks not sweating, rising with the cold air from the window. She shivered, and delighted in it.
    The day held strange energy. She got dressed and wondered about the visions that had fallen on her, her new ability. Would she see someone win the lottery? Maybe some small child would find a quarter, and use it to buy a gumball. She smiled to herself as she did up her hair, and wandered to the bus stop, still smiling.
    Nothing happened on the bus; no strange memory appeared of someone meeting a lost friend or a new love. She got to the restaurant and started working, full of more cheer than she knew possible. Her happiness was infectious, calming upset patrons and brightening days for those that were already bright, and before she knew it the shift had ended and she counted her tips. Almost forty dollars! She said goodbye to Mr. Johns, who said goodbye back, just as infected as her customers, and walked to the bus stop. The day had retained its cool power, and the sweat Christina had gathered dried in the refreshing wind.
    After getting off the bus, just as free of visions as the ride in the morning, she dropped her things, changed into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, and went for a walk in the cool air.
    She walked to the bottom of a hill and crossed a railroad, checking to make sure that no kind of thousand-ton beast was barreling down on her. Up the other side was a park, and she roamed in the trees. Soon the sun got lower and she got hungrier. She went back across the railroad and to her apartment. Dinner was a small affair; her groceries were getting fewer in number. She counted the money she had. She still needed more than a hundred dollars to make the rent, and mister moneybags hadn't graced the restaurant with his appearance yet. She had four days left and wondered if she would be able to make it.
    She looked around the apartment. She had pawned a few things before: jewelry, shoes, what small electronics she had been able to acquire. She would not be able to buy much food until after the rent was paid, or she might risk not being able to afford the roof over her head. She decided that not eating for a day was better than living on the street.
    She sat on top of her bed.
    Not a single vision had occurred. Maybe the only connection she would have with what she saw as magic would simply be that brief. She was sad to see it go, but she had been able to convince the Bowerfields to apply for the home, and join in the celebration of others, whether they knew it or not. It was not such a bad thing, but she wasn't sad to see it go.

Two days later she ran into the Mohands on the bottom floor before she pushed out the door into the sun that had cranked back up to its normal temperature. Mrs. Mohand was just entering, and the two of them did the awkward dance of the door until Mrs. Mohand broke it and walked past Christina. She was talking to Emily, their child, commenting on the heat and promising to visit the park in a few days. Christina went to the bus stop and waited. She fanned her arms to try and cool off, then stopped, feeling foolish.
    No vision presented itself to her the day before. She thought perhaps that they truly were gone for good.
    The day passed by slowly, stretched thin by the heat. Christina felt tired by the time she got to the restaurant, and only felt worse as the day progressed. It was a light crowd and gave her fewer tips than she thought she would get, putting her just a bit behind the track she had set for herself to pay the rent.
    One pleasant thing did happen. The Bowerfields entered, exuberant. They told Christina that they had been accepted to the home, a nice place upstate. They were going to visit on Saturday to look at the facilities, but wanted to thank Christina for getting them to go for it. She smiled and said nothing of it, glad that she could make the vision of happiness she had seen a reality.
    "We had to get you a little something, but we didn't know what you would want. We decided that a little bit of money would help a nice girl trying to keep on her feet," Erma said, buoyant. "George, give her a twenty."
    "Mrs. Bowerfield, I can't-"
    "Of course you can! George!" Erma nearly shouted, startling her husband. "The money?"
    "Eh? Oh, yes, uh..." George dragged a battered wallet out of his back pocket. He flipped it open, revealing a bare emptiness. "I'm all out!"
    "What?" Erma pullet out the stuffed wallet from her purse. "Shame on you, George!" She flipped open the wallet and layers of plastic sheeting fell, each pocket holding a savings card or picture. She searched in the small bill pocket, and looked at Christina with an embarrassed look. "We'll get you some. You live at the building on ninth, right? We'll give some to you before we go on Saturday. George, be sure to pick up some cash."
    George seemed not to notice.
    "It was just a suggestion, Mrs. Bowerfield. You wanted to already, right?"
    "A little bit. But we weren't sure, were we, George? We were worried about losing the money, and you're the one that convinced us."
    "I didn't say much."
    "No honey, but maybe it was just someone else saying that we should go for it that made us do it. We'll stop by on the weekend before we head out. Come, George!" Erma walked out the door with her husband at her heels waving goodbye to Christina. Christina waved back and returned to work.
    When she got home she counted her money again. Twenty dollars from the Bowerfields would make her life much easier. She only had two days left before the rent was due for the month, and she was cutting it close. If she got a bit lucky with tips she could make it, but still. Saturday was the last day she had, and she only had to hope that George had heard Erma tell him to get cash. She didn't like the idea of taking from the nice couple, but they offered . . . and she did need it.
    The next day she got to the restaurant and found it busy, a good thing. She started working and garnered the right amount of tips to put her back on track. It was hectic, tiring work, and she ran back and forth across the restaurant floor until she thought her legs were going to fall off. More than once she got angry shouts aimed her way for some mistake with the food or slow service, no matter how quickly she moved.
    The visions returned and hit her twice as she worked. The first one was a person waking up in a hospital bed with concerned family crowded around, each one happier than the next that the person on the bed was waking. Christina couldn't see who it was waking up, and couldn't pick the person out of the crowded restaurant, either. The second one was of a frazzled young woman stuffed into a booth in a corner shaking hands with a well-dressed man, and then handing off a painting of an old woman hunched over a stove, steam rising around the woman’s drooping, ragged hair and downcast eyes, all done in sweet flowing oils. Once Christina went to her table to refill the woman's water, and saw a doodle done on a napkin. After finishing with the water, Christina pointed at the doodle and said that she thought it was nice. The woman smiled up at her and thanked her.
    Just as she was about to leave, a round man that had been eating on his own walked out the door. He pushed it open and was hit by a wave of heat that had sat waiting outside, fueled by the buses and taxis and the sun. The man clutched his shoulder and toppled to the ground.
    Christina saw it and rushed out the door, pulling the man to his back and yelling at someone to call an ambulance. She knew this was the man that had been in the first vision, and that he was in trouble. People stood around her in a ring, and nobody seemed to be calling anyone.
    She pointed at a woman who was holding a phone and told her to call nine one one. The woman flipped open her phone and punched the numbers, looking for a street sign. Christina knelt over the man, unsure of what to do next.
    A man ran up, claiming to be a doctor. Christina stepped back as he assessed the man and started CPR. She felt a warm wind blow across the street, and a feeling that made her want to fall to the ground.
    The vision of the man waking to find his family standing around him, happy to see him wake up after a massive heart attack, had changed. Like a ghost's hand had reached in and ripped pieces of a memory out, replacing them with a fresh picture. Now the man was awake to see his wife and three children walk into his room. He greeted them as hugs were passed from one to another.
    The ambulance arrived a few minutes later and the EMTs loaded the suffering man in. Christina watched it leave, and then realized she missed her bus.
    She waited at the stop for the next one. Her action had changed the vision directly. She didn't know how; she hadn't done anything except tell someone to call nine one one, but that must have been something. If she hadn't known -- immediately -- that the man was in trouble, precious minutes would have passed before somebody thought to call for an ambulance.
    She got in her apartment and walked past the Mohands. Mr. Mohand was discussing something that was 'hot in the toilet.' Mr. Mohand's grasp of English was negotiable, and Christina wasn't sure what the phrase meant. Mrs. Mohand was holding Emily, and nothing about the situation struck Christina as very hot in the toilet. Emily's sweet dark face peeked over her mother's shoulder. Christina said hello to them before going up the stairs.
    As she approached the third floor, a door opened and a voice thundered out. The man that had tried to grab her and, she guessed, do terrible things to her came out of his room. He was coughing and talking on the phone, and a wicked scent hit Christina, a smell she knew. She waited until he went back in and then crept past, heart pounding under her shirt. The smell of weed threatened to bring tears to her eyes, and when she got to her room she threw the window wide and sucked in fresh air, even though it was hot. She coughed.
    She should tell the superintendent. There was a no drugs policy in the building. She looked at the phone and reached for it, unsure. If the man found out it was her he would be furious. She would be in danger.
    She thought about the Mohands and little Emily with the sweet dark face, and she picked up the phone, dialing the super's number. He should still be in the office.
    The phone rang once, and Christina slammed it down. She couldn't do it. She would be killed; she knew she would. Here was a man that already thought she was an item to be felt and used, told on like a bad little child. With drugs in his system he would become a storm.
    An hour later a knock came from the other side of the door, and her heart nearly stopped. Dinner was a little bit of cooked chicken and the dishes were just getting washed. She opened the door a crack with the sliding chain lock still attached. On the other side was the super, an ex-cop named Mr. Diaz with balding hair and muscles that he had worked hard to keep.
    "Christina. I saw I had a call from you. I must have missed it." He looked at the sliver of her face with concern. "Are you all right? Something troubling you?"
    Christina's mouth started to form the word yes.
    A vision appeared in the cache of memories. It was of her. She sat on her bed and heard stomps coming up the hall from the stairs. With one mighty crash, her door's locks were blasted open and the man from the third floor stood on the other side. For the second worst moment of her life, Christina felt the perverse thrill of the man laying sight on the woman that he would, in an instant, brutalize. Because she had gotten him kicked out of his home.
    "No," Christina forced out of her mouth. "It's nothing." She closed the door in the super's face and pressed against it. She heard the super mutter something, and walk away.
    The vision was gone and done; it never happened. She was safe. She washed the dishes, set them to dry, pushed the table in front of the door.
    She slept in fear of an event that shouldn't happen.

The next day she rose, gladness blooming in her heart as the sun banished the darkness from her mind. She went down the stairs and past the third floor, putting each foot down with deliberate silence.
    It was the hottest day yet, and just sitting out for the bus brought sweat to Christina's forehead and armpits and feet. By the time the bus came she felt dizzy. Before clocking in she drank a big glass of water and sighed.
    The rent was due. The super would be around to collect during the night. If she didn't have enough . . .
    But she would be able to get tips. It was payday, and she would run to deposit the check. That was most of the money. Hopefully the tips would be able to make up the rest.
    And if not, she hoped that George Bowerfield had remembered to get cash. She again felt the guilt of taking their money . . . but it might be her last option.
    She went out to the guest area, and found it nearly deserted. Theresa came up to her.
    "What's going on? There's hardly anyone here!"
    "The paper," Theresa said, pointing at a page she held. It was a small story detailing the man's collapse outside the restaurant the night before. "Everybody must think that our food did it."
    "But . . . it doesn't!"
    "No." Theresa sighed. "But what can we do about it?"
    "What?" Christina asked.
    "Nothing. That's the point. We just do the job we're hired to do."
    Christina looked out at the small crowd and pictured herself sitting on the street with her scant materials piled next to her. It wasn't a vision, just the normal imagination of a stressed woman.
    She rubbed her head and started working. The new stigma, spoken or unspoken, that the restaurant she worked in should be avoided had pervaded enough people that it was the slowest day in weeks. Only a few people came in before lunch, and even most of them were regulars or those who knew the place. The tips were the normal amount for such a crowd; Christina watched them come in and kept track of the amount. The day went on and it grew too slowly. With an hour left, Christina looked at the nearly deserted seating area and felt a squeeze on her heart.
    "Don't worry," she heard behind her. It was Mr. Johns. "This happens. It'll pick back up." He handed her an envelope. "Here's the last two weeks. You've been doing good work recently." He smiled, a rare event. "Keep it up."
    Christina squirreled the envelope away in a pocket.
    She left work and caught a bus to her bank, making it with only ten minutes before closing time. She deposited her check and received her deposit slip. She got another bus back to the restaurant and walked to her normal stop. It was late now, almost six thirty in the evening. The air was heavy with water and slanting rays of sun.
    On the bus she experienced a vision. It was, again, of the Bowerfields.
    It was without a doubt the longest vision she would ever see. It began with the two of them squeezed into the back of a dingy cab at the rear of a line four cars long, waiting for a train to pass. It was the train crossing near Christina's apartment, the one at the bottom of the hill. Without warning the taxi was struck from behind and, in turn, struck the car in front of it. Christina experienced the terrible domino effect until the car at the head of the line was pushed forward just enough.
    The shattering, screaming metal shredded in a blink. The taxi that had been pressed forward into the passing train disappeared with a terrible cry from Erma and George and a horrible curse from their cab driver. A piece of torn metal crashed to a halt near the car that they were in, showing a bumper sticker with a dirty yellow smiley face. A rip had shot through it and the metal underneath.
    The vision continued as the train passed enough for the waiting cars to go through, and Christina was with the shocked Bowerfields. Chemicals passed through their brains, filling them with unbelievable relief. She was with them until they reached the home.
    The bus screeched to a halt at her stop, and she fell back into her own life. She rose, wobbling on her shoes. She went off the bus and walked to her building. She went up to her room and gasped, stricken to tears by the horrible event she had witnessed second-hand.
    She did not have time to grieve. Before she could even sit, her phone rang. She gulped a deep breath and sputtered it out, then answered.
    "Hello? Christina?" Christina recognized the voice of Erma Bowerfield. "We're downstairs. Should we come up?"
    Christina glanced around her dingy apartment. "No. I'll . . . uh, I'll come down and meet you." She hung up, splashed her face with water, and rubbed it with a towel. She glanced at herself in the mirror. She felt better.
    Frenzied, she went down the stairs and ran into Mrs. Mohand with Emily. Mrs. Mohand explained that they were going to visit the park and feed the ducks once Mr. Mohand arrived. Christina was tempted to ask what hot in the toilet meant but kept it to herself. They got to the lobby, and the moment Mrs. Bowerfield laid eyes on Emily Mohand she was on her like a mosquito on a sleeper.
    "What a darling! George, isn't she a darling? What's her name, dearie? Emily? What a lovely name! How old? Oh, has she started walking? Just this week? How wonderful!"
    By this time Emily had been transferred to Erma's sure grasp and was smiling at the old woman. Mrs. Bowerfield spotted Christina waiting, still in her work outfit, and let Emily's mother take her back. "Such a cutie-pie! You keep her nice and safe now! I'm sure she'll love the park, it's gorgeous this time of year."
    The two women said goodbye and Mrs. Mohand went out the door.
    "Here we are, Christina. George, do you have the money?" Erma asked her silent husband. He looked at her.
    "The what?"
    Erma turned, furious as a gathering storm, and reduced her husband to a cowering husk. "You forgot?"
    "Sorry dear," George said, clearly familiar with this type of situation. Erma sighed, blowing a great gust of air and making George's hair flap. Slowly, aware that once again she had nothing to give the woman that she had promised a sum of money, Erma turned and looked at Christina.
    "Sorry, Christina. We'll stop at an ATM machine on the way back, but we have an appointment to keep and we need to get going."
    Christina got her heart to settle down. "It's all right. I can wait." She ran through the vision that she had received as she rode the bus. "I hope you have a good trip,” she said as they stepped into the open air and felt the sun on their skin.
    "Thank you dear. It'll be a nice drive up there. We'll have to take a taxi, though. George's car is in the shop. We walked here," Erma prattled. She waved an arm for a taxi, and instead of one, two came to a stop. "Oh! One too many!"
    The Mohands, who had been standing nearby, said they would take the other one to the park.
    Christina's eyes were drawn to the bumper of one of the cabs.
    "Which one should we take, George?" Erma asked.
    "Oh, either one's fine," George answered.
    "He can't make a decision to save his life," Erma said to Christina. "Which one looks better to you?"
    Christina's mind blazed through every possible thing she could say. It was too late to try and explain anything. They were in a hurry. She thought about the horrid vision from the bus. There was nothing she could do now.
    "Take the one in the front," she said at last. Only a moment had passed but it was like the moment had been forever. The calmness of her voice was a miracle.
    "That one?" Erma said. "Why?"
    Christina's stomach clenched. "It has a smiley face bumper sticker."
    Erma smiled at her and nodded. "Good enough as any. Get in George."
    With the sudden energy of a bolt of lightning the vision Christina had seen was gone, replaced by a new one. This one was of the Mohands in the park, Emily enjoying the grass and trying in vain to get a duck to eat out of her little hand, the little hand attached to the little body that Mrs. Bowerfield had said to keep nice and safe.
    George and Erma got in the taxi and it took off down the road. The Mohands got in the remaining cab and it followed at a slower pace. The two cars passed out of view and Christina stood paralyzed on the sidewalk as people moved around her. She waited.
    And waited.
    And wai-
    A heart-stopping crash came down the road. The screeching and screaming of metal was all the more terrible in real life.
    Christina went into her building and wept.

The Bowerfields never returned. Christina spent the night in a haze of guilt, cursing at herself for deciding who should live and who shouldn't. She felt cold and cut off. No visions had shown themselves; she wished they never would. She nearly didn't hear the knocks on the door.
    "Oh my God," the super said when she opened the door. "Are you all right, Christina?"
    Christina wiped away the tears on her cheeks and looked at the ground. "You know that train accident a few blocks over?" The super nodded. "Some of my friends were in the taxi that was hit." Her voice trembled.
    "Oh. I'm sorry. I'll just, uh, collect your rent and be on my way."
    Christina kept her eyes on the ground. "I'm sorry Mr. Diaz, I don't have enough. I just need a little bit of time to pack my things."
    "How much do you need?"
    Christina looked up at him. "What?"
    "How much are you missing?"
    "About twenty dollars," she said. Hope spread its warmth.
    "Give me what you can, and I'll spot the rest. Pay me back as soon as you have it." Christina didn't answer, stunned into silence. "I know you work hard. I know you won't try to trick me. Even so, it's just twenty. Besides." He leaned in a bit. "If I hadn't come up here last night that reefer on the third floor would still be living here! After I left I was walking past his room and smelled some Mary Jane! Well, I kicked him out without a thought. No damn drugs in my building, and you better believe it! Oh come now Christina, there's no need to cry."