My sister sees.

All my life, she’s made predictions: her grade on tomorrow’s algebra test, what we’d both get for Christmas, Mom’s cancer, Troy’s car crash, the day our Grandma Schulz would die.  The night before 9/11, she dreamed about a plane crashing into a building, knocking it over easily, like a flimsy Lego tower.  And we live in Wayne, Pennsylvania—nowhere near New York.

Cassie says these visions start slowly, sort of like a picture developing, and then become clear all at once.  “It’s like something warm spilling inside my brain,” she says. “Or like light cast through a prism, a streak of orange running into blue.”  She claims she can’t make it happen, but she knows when a picture is coming.  She calls that feeling Before. The frame around it is After.

Ghost Signs by Elizabeth Mosier

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