Spoonbenders

“The gun, my young friend, is that dark cousin of the placebo, the nocebo. If a placebo provides false benefits, the nocebo imparts false harm. The damage to the patient is psychogenic, but no less real.”

“If you believe in it,” Grandpa explained, “it hurts.”

“We’ve tested it on several ‘psychics,’ ” Archibald said. “Once we explain what the gun does to the torsion field, they lose all ability to function. Of course, half of those people were fakers—”

“Unconscious fakers,” Grandpa put in.

“—so we’re faking the fakes.”

Matty took a moment to think about this. “So Uncle Buddy…?”

“Buddy needed to be normal,” Grandpa said. “It was a mercy killing.”

Matty took a sip from the frozen drink, thinking. The two men started talking about the details of government contracts. When the calamari arrived, Grandpa noticed him and said, “What’s the matter, my boy?”

“Nothing,” Matty said. “I was just wondering about…me.”

“You?”

“My power is real, right?”

“My boy, my boy,” Grandpa Teddy said. “Just because there’s a lot of cut glass in the jewelry case doesn’t mean there aren’t a few diamonds. You, Matthias, are descended from greatness.”

“I know, I know, demigods.”

Archibald snorted.

“I mean Maureen McKinnon,” Grandpa said. “The World’s Most Powerful Psychic. I made that medal for her for Christmas one year. A joke between us, but not

a joke, because let me tell you, Matthias, she was, indisputably, the real deal.”

“To fair Maureen,” Archibald said, raising his glass again.

“To the love of my life,” Grandpa said.

Matty lifted his piña colada. “To Grandma Mo.”

BUDDY

He turned the plastic-coated pages in a slow simmer of panic. Each picture was more luscious than any pornographic photo he’d ever seen: seductively crossed chicken strips; gleaming pot roast; wet, juicy quesadillas; steaming piles of spaghetti. Too many choices. Far too many. The Build Your Own Burger section made his heart race. For years he’d known what to order, because he remembered ordering it. It was a causal loop that had long ago stopped feeling strange and become reassuring: remembered meals were the ultimate comfort food. But to be set loose in an environment where not only could almost anything be ordered, but if that failed, could be assembled from a vast number of ingredients? Madness.

Then he turned the page, and a squawk escaped his throat. Breakfast Any Time.

The waitress appeared. She was shorter than Buddy and ten years older, with a narrow chin and a nose that was a bit loo large for her face. “See anything you like?” she asked.

For a moment Buddy couldn’t speak. He took a breath and said, “Denny’s is a hellscape of unfettered free will.”

The waitress laughed. “I’m with you on hellscape. Can I start you with a drink?”

“Just ice tea, thanks.”

The waitress smiled cryptically, then walked away. Buddy had asked to sit in her section. For the past four weeks, he’d been engaged in his own experiment in choice. Could he really do anything now? Travel anywhere? Talk to anyone? He’d become that terrifying and terrified thing: a free agent. And yet it was thrilling. He was responsible for no one but himself, and he could do anything he wanted. At least until his money ran out. He’d traveled to Alton, Illinois, then to St. Louis, Missouri, and then, following rumors and referrals, to two other small midwestern towns. At each step, the number of decisions he’d been required to make was nearly paralyzing. But he’d made them. He’d made them without knowing if they were right or wrong. Finally he’d arrived, at nine-thirty at night, at an all-but-empty chain restaurant in Carbondale, Illinois.

He was so nervous.

To soothe himself while he waited, he took out his crayon and drew a line across the paper place mat. He’d drawn this line several times during his trip, on napkins and hotel stationery, to remind himself of where he’d come from and where he was going. Call that his lifeline. He made a mark near the right end of the line that was September 4, 1995. Until that date, his mind had wandered up and down the line, remembering in both directions. But now he was on the tip of the line, which crept forward moment by moment. He never knew when it was going to stop. He kept doodling until the waitress returned with the tumbler of tea.

“Pretty color,” she said. “What happens then?” She nodded at the numbers Buddy had absentmindedly drawn far to the right of the line: 11 2 2016.

“No idea,” Buddy said. Suddenly he was embarrassed. He must look like a little kid. “Do you remember me?”

The waitress glanced toward the woman working the cash register. “I’m not in that line of work anymore.”

“No! I didn’t mean that! I’m so sorry. I just wondered—”

“I looked you up,” she said. “That story you told me. You really were famous once.”

“It didn’t turn out well.”

“What does?” The woman at the cash register walked into the kitchen, and the waitress seemed to relax. “So you stalking me, Buddy?” Then she quickly said, “Just kidding. It’s okay.”