Joe’s on one knee on the riverbed; his fingers play in the brown foam that slugs downstream. “People are counting on me,” he says aloud, to himself.  “Ten are the numbers. Not nine. Not Eleven. One above three; three above seven; and seven above twelve. Beth, Gimel, Daleth, Kaph, Pe, Resh, Tau.”

Up the concrete embankment stand the people who are counting on him. They are street people; they mumble and murmur to one another.

Pamela’s at her cards; at the bar. She’s using the Celtic Cross spread. She lays down the Significator and then places the nine cards in their appointed spots. Time for the tenth card. She places the tenth card in its spot; turns it over: The Tower.

“Really?” she mutters to herself. “Again?”

Ballard gives Ben a look. Then takes a final gulp of coffee before getting up to go. “No, Ben; nobody needs that shit.” He tosses a couple of singles onto the table, then mutters: “Douchebag.” And walks back to his car.