The psychic’s tent was made of large drapes, held together by mismatched shoelaces. I turned to Sarah intent on shooting her a look of ‘seriously?’ But before I could voice my complaints, she gripped my hand, sticky from corndogs, and dragged me through the dangling strings of beads. The interior was a different world than the crowded, child-filled, carnival just outside. In here, the air was still and smelled like a mixture of strong perfume, candle wax, and tacky nail polish. In the middle of the poorly lit space was a woman who appeared old with eyes that appeared ancient. She sat in a deep seated chair, tucked into a worn wooden desk who’s surface was empty; except for a spherical glass ball and a deck of tarot cards. Beside me sarah nearly burst out laughing at the sight, but she swallowed it down with the help of her sugary coke. The old woman gestured at the two cushioned chairs, and once we were seated she took my hand and gently turned it to examine my palm. After maybe a full two minutes of silence, the old woman spoke for the first time: ‘Why do you want to die?’