[Angela]
It was a good 15 years ago. I was 6 years old, Patrick 7. I first saw him sitting on top of a small, pathetic run-down Ferris wheel with his dad. I could tell he was reluctant. His fingers gripped the Ferris wheel bar tightly, and his eyes stayed fixed to the ceiling of their box.
As I watched his father snapped at him and he slowly raised his binoculars to stare down, at my direction. I gulped and looked away quickly.
Still then, I couldn't block out his blue eyes, blonde curls and lopsided, easy grin.
[Patrick]
I headed to work, as usual. I was a psychic. I mean, not those psychics who read cards, palms or even tea leaves (who reads tea leaves. I mean come on. What, the wrinkles say "Oh hey say they're gonna have a generally good life but they'll meet some ups and downs in life..." Duh.)
I read people. Like, not flip them or anything of course. But I look into their eyes and I know. I know what they're thinking. Yeah, call it a supernatural power.
I call it my gift.
And I make quite some money, so I'm content. Angela is kind of a psychic too, though. She used to be in the same carnival as me. We were referred to the "carnival royalty" after a while. My dad didn't really like it though.
But that didn't stop us from getting to where we are now.