“Do you believe in fate?” he asks.
I cock my head to the side. Do I believe in fate? What kind of question is that? It seems like the kind of question that somebody who’s had a very good life might ask. Because the cards I’ve been dealt so far have all been losing ones. Starting with my parents. And then Freddy. If fate exists, then all I can say is it doesn’t like me very much.
“I’m here in the city for an interview myself,” the man goes on, without waiting to hear my answer. “I was actually going to interview somebody for a job. Right here at this diner. Except she didn’t show up. So…”
I stare at him. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “What kind of job?”
“Well, it’s…” He hesitates, then nods his head at his table in the back. “Listen, why don’t you go get yourself cleaned up and then we’ll talk about it? I’ll buy you a fresh cup of coffee—you look like you could use it.” He grins at me. “I’m Adam, by the way. Adam Barnett.”
“Sylvia Robinson.”
“Nice to meet you, Sylvia.”
He holds his hand out to me, and I shake it. He has a nice handshake. Warm and firm, but not like he’s trying to crush the bones of my hand. Why do some men shake your hand like that? What are they trying to prove?
Of course, then I notice my own hand is sticky with coffee and cream. This just isn’t my day. But Adam doesn’t wipe his hand on his pants when we’re done shaking—he doesn’t seem at all concerned about my sticky palm.
“So what do you say?” he asks.
“I, uh…”
I don’t know why I’m hesitating. A job is a job. And this man seems nice enough. He defended me when that old woman wanted to call the police. And he paid off her tab so the waitress didn’t get stiffed. I need a job badly, and this is my only shot right now. Plus, I could use a nice hot cup of coffee after the morning I’m having.
But for some reason, I can’t shake this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I once read that when people have near-fatal heart attacks, they get a sense of doom. They describe a sinking sensation before the chest pain even begins, like the world is about to end. It’s a commonly described phenomenon that nobody can explain. But when something terrible is about to happen, people know.
And when I look at Adam Barnett, for a moment, I get that sensation. Doom.
Like something terrible will happen if I follow him to his table.
But that’s ridiculous. I’ve had a run of bad luck over my life, so of course, I’m going to be suspicious of everything. I don’t believe in fate and I don’t believe in premonitions. What I do believe is that I will be homeless in a few days if I don’t get my hands on some money. And turning tricks in Times Square is not my cup of tea.
“Okay,” I say. “Let me get cleaned up and then I’ll join you.”