Milwaukee, Wisconsin, 1948

The city crouched like a beast on the edge of Lake Michigan, its breath hot with the stench of breweries and smoke from a hundred factory stacks. By day, the iron bones of the city glinted in the thin sunlight, a maze of steel girders and riveted bridges that crisscrossed the Milwaukee River. But by night, it transformed. The streets were slick with rain or something like it, reflecting the cold, indifferent light of flickering street lamps and the neon signs of smoky taverns and seedy diners.

Down by the docks, the fog rolled in like a thief, swallowing the shadowy figures that moved along the waterfront — men who smelled of fish, rust, and sweat, hauling crates in the dim, wet light of dawn. The river, that serpentine vein, snaked through the city's heart, carrying away more than just refuse; it carried secrets, whispered along the current, past factories that never slept and tenements where the windows stared blank and accusing.

The East Side was where the money slept, in mansions that wore their age like a moth-eaten coat, while the West Side slummed it with workers and dreamers. The Riverwest district was caught somewhere between, a place where dreams were cheap, and a bottle of whiskey was cheaper. The tangle of streets led to dive bars with chipped paint and doors that creaked like they had secrets of their own.

Milwaukee had its gleaming bits too — high-rise office buildings with mirrored windows that watched over the city like gods judging from above, and theaters that promised a taste of Hollywood glamour but delivered something closer to homemade gin. The wide boulevard of Wisconsin Avenue cut through the city’s belly, lined with storefronts where bright lights promised the good life but whose shadows told the truth.

The factories ran day and night, their furnaces belching smoke and fire, while their workers spilled out into taverns at quitting time, faces lined with soot and the hard lines of a life lived on the edge. The Third Ward, with its old brick warehouses, was a ghost town by dusk, a haven for those who worked in the shadows: the loan sharks, the grifters, the lost souls.

Milwaukee was a city with a heart of iron, veins of smoke, and a soul stained by beer and brine. The people here were tough, with eyes that looked straight through you, seeing the stories you tried to hide. In this town, even the fog seemed to know its way around; it clung to the alleys and doorways like a bad reputation. It was a place where secrets were made and buried, where every corner held a story no one wanted to tell.

And somewhere in that labyrinth of cobblestones and concrete, in a city where everyone had something to hide, a detective stalked the shadows, hunting for the truth… or something like it.

They call me Detective Casey Castor. I’ve been on the force a good while, long enough to see the city's underbelly up close and personal, long enough to know that not everything that crawls out of the dark can be explained. See, I’ve got a little something extra most don’t — a gift, they’d call it. But I’d call it a curse. I’m a precog, a psychic. I get these flashes, these gut-wrenching visions of things that haven’t happened yet. And let me tell you, being able to see the future? It ain't worth a hill of beans most days.

Oh sure, I got some useful stuff. I can sense danger, can practically dodge bullets on my good days, can read the past of things, see little snippets of stuff that can help me unravel a case. The little powers — they’re the most useful ones. It’s the big stuff that's a pain in my neck.

Dreams that are full of vague things that barely make a lick of sense, or even worse, visions that are like a sucker punch right to the breadbox, just as vague but hitting you when you least want them.

Take last Tuesday, for example. Rain was coming down in sheets, cold enough to cut through to your bones, and I was nursing a lousy cup of coffee at Barney’s Diner. That’s when I got hit with a vision. A real doozy. I saw a man I didn’t recognize yet — slicked-back hair, a cheap suit, and fear painted across his face like a kid’s Halloween mask. He was running, eyes wide with desperation, and then a shot rang out, clear as a bell. I saw him drop, saw the blood spill out onto the cobblestones like ink on a bad story.

I knew what that meant. I had about three days, maybe four, before that poor bastard met his maker. But here’s the rub — I had no name, no address, no reason to even find the guy, let alone save him. Just a feeling in my gut and a face I wouldn’t forget.

That's the real rub — either you see things that you feel like you can't change, or you do manage to change fate and then no one believes you because they think fate is set in stone. A rock, not a series of threads on a loom.

It’s not a new thing, either. Let me tell you about this Greek dame way back when called Cassandra. They called her Cassandra, and she had a gift too — or maybe it was a curse, depending on who you asked. She could see the future clear as day, but here’s the kicker: no one believed her. Apollo himself, the Greek god of prophecy, gave her that power, but when she turned him down, spurned his affections, he twisted it. Cursed her so no one would ever trust a word she said. She’d scream warnings from the rooftops, cry out about the city burning, walls crumbling, men falling by the sword. And what did they do? They laughed. They dismissed her as a madwoman, a loon.

I know how that feels. Maybe not the part about gods or the Greek tragedies, but the rest? Yeah, that’s something I understand all too well. You tell people what you see coming — a murder, a robbery, a betrayal — and they look at you like you’ve grown a second head. Even when you’ve got a record to back it up, a string of closed cases, they still want to believe you just got lucky, or worse, that you’re on the take.

That’s the thing about fate; most folks don’t like to believe it’s something that can be bent or broken. They want to think it’s set in stone, a nice neat path laid out by God or whatever force they believe runs the show. But me? I see fate more like a web, strands crisscrossing in every direction. Tug on one thread, and you might just pull the whole damn thing loose.

I’ve seen that web, seen it stretch and warp. Seen it snap, too, when you push hard enough. But you can’t always control which threads are gonna give way. Sometimes, you pull, and you save a life. Other times, you pull, and you watch a dozen others come crashing down.

Cassandra knew that better than anyone. She saw the end coming for her city, saw it in every vision, every dream. But all she could do was watch as the world ignored her and rolled on toward disaster. That’s what it’s like being a precog. You see the cracks in the dam, hear the water rushing behind, and you scream for someone to listen, to patch it up. But most days, you’re just screaming into the wind.

So, I figured, I got two choices. I could sit back, drink my lousy coffee, and wait for the visions to wash over me like some tragic prophet of doom, or I could hit the streets, put the pieces together, and maybe, just maybe, change something for the better. But I gotta work fast because that guy I saw in my vision? He's already running for his life, and time… well, time’s got a way of slipping through your fingers like sand in an hourglass.

I don’t know if I’ll save him. Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll find him in time. But I’ll be damned if I let another Cassandra’s curse play out on my watch.

This isn’t the first case I’ve had to go it alone, stick my neck out all by myself, desperately piecing together a vague assortment of clues that hit me upside the head like a prizefighter. Most of the force doesn’t know what I can do, and it’s just as well — I don’t need them on my case, making jokes about it.

They think I’m just another detective with a nose for trouble, a knack for turning up in the right place at the right time. And I let them think that. Better they see me as lucky than know the truth — that I get my tips from visions and half-formed dreams that come to me in the dead of night or while I’m sipping cold coffee at a greasy spoon.

See, you start telling folks you’re a psychic, and suddenly every case you’ve cracked becomes a fluke. Every hunch that paid off, every collar you made, just dumb luck. And the jokes — they’d start coming fast and mean. “Hey, Castor, should I bet on the ponies today?” or, “What am I thinking right now, detective?” No thanks. I’d rather keep my so-called gift under wraps.

Besides, I’ve been down that road before. Tried sharing my visions, tried explaining how I knew a suspect would be at the docks or which alley a perp would run through. They smiled, nodded, and then they filed it away under “Crazy Casey,” the detective with one foot in the loony bin. I got tired of the looks, the whispers behind my back, the rumors that I was on the take or had some kind of inside man feeding me information.

So now, I keep it to myself. I follow the threads, pull at the seams, and hope that something gives before it’s too late. Because I’ve seen what happens when it’s too late — and that’s a sight you never forget.

This case is no different. I’m starting with a ghost, a face I saw in a flash of lightning, a sound like thunder, and the gut-wrenching knowledge that time is ticking down. No badge is gonna save me from what’s coming. No partner, no backup. Just me, my gut, and whatever fate decides to toss my way next.

I light another cigarette and let the smoke curl around me like a fog. Out there, somewhere in this city of shadows, that poor bastard’s running, and I’m gonna find him. If I have to go it alone, so be it. Wouldn’t be the first time, and I doubt it’ll be the last.

I check my heater, the cold metal reassuring in my hand. I don't like having to carry a gun, let alone use one, but better safe than sorry. This old police-issue revolver has saved my hide more times than I care to count.

It's not that I'm a lousy shot — far from it. I can hit the broad side of a barn in the dark with my eyes closed, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Guns have a way of making things too final, too quick. Pull that trigger, and there's no going back, no way to un-ring the bell. And in my line of work, where everything’s already tangled in shades of gray, I’d rather not add another shade of red if I can help it.

Still, I've learned not to trust the odds. The city’s full of desperate men with itchy trigger fingers, and I've seen too many good folks go down with their guns still holstered. So, I keep mine close, loaded, and ready. It’s a necessary evil in a world where evil’s just waiting around every corner.

The revolver is heavy, its weight a constant reminder of the line I walk every day. The line between life and death, justice and revenge, sanity and madness. And in this city, with its dark alleys and smoke-filled rooms, you’ve gotta be ready for anything.

I spin the chamber, a nervous habit I’ve picked up over the years, and snap it back into place. The cold steel is comforting, in a way. It’s the one thing in this whole mess that’s simple, direct. No visions, no dreams, no guessing games. Just a hammer, a bullet, and a choice.

I holster it again, feeling the familiar weight settle against my side. I’ve got a long night ahead of me, and I’d rather not be caught empty-handed when the shadows start to close in.

Because in a place like this, even a psychic needs a little extra insurance.

This is where being a detective comes in handy. I like to think it's a skill set precog sensitives like myself should develop. See, it’s not just about seeing things before they happen; it’s about knowing what to do with those flashes, those brief glimpses of what’s to come. You’ve gotta take notes, make observations, focus on the little details in those visions — the ones that stick out like sore thumbs, the ones that feel like a slap to the face.

Sometimes it's a color, a sound, a fleeting scent. Other times, it's a face in a crowd or a half-heard word muttered in the dark. The trick is figuring out all the angles, piecing together those fragments like shards of broken glass until you’ve got something resembling a clear picture. It’s about chasing leads, finding patterns in the chaos, and knowing when to trust your gut and when to back off.

It’s not enough to just see. Seeing is the easy part, the part that comes whether you want it or not. The real work begins after — figuring out how the pieces fit, which ones matter and which ones are just noise. That’s where the detective side of me kicks in.

I learned early on that if I didn’t sharpen those skills, I’d just be another kook with a head full of bad dreams. A lot of folks think being a psychic means you’re coasting on some kind of supernatural autopilot. But that’s a load of horse manure. If you don’t do the legwork, if you don’t put in the hours, you’ll miss the crucial stuff, the tiny details that turn a random flash into something that makes sense.

I scribble down what I remember from the vision — slicked-back hair, cheap suit, fear that could fill a whole room. I jot down the setting, the streetlights reflecting on wet cobblestones, the sharp crack of a gunshot cutting through the rain. I make a note about the way he was running, the direction, the desperation in his eyes.

Then I start to pull it apart, turn it over in my mind like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. I think about the face, the angles of his jaw, the way his lips were parted like he was gasping for breath. I try to remember the little things — the smell of smoke, the faint sound of a radio playing somewhere in the distance.

Being a detective means digging deeper, looking past the surface. It means using every bit of knowledge, every bit of instinct, and every bit of insight you’ve got to find the truth buried beneath the lies. It means sweating the details because sometimes, the smallest thing can break a case wide open.

So I keep my pen moving, my mind churning. I go back over the vision, again and again, pulling at threads until something gives. Because out there, somewhere in this city of shadows, a man is running for his life. And I've got three days, maybe four, to find him before the clock runs out.

And if I’ve learned anything in this line of work, it’s that time is always a step ahead, and you’ve gotta keep running if you ever hope to catch up.

I drive like a demon, not that I drive any other way. The old Chevy roars down the slick streets, the tires skidding for traction on the rain-slicked asphalt. The city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadows, but I keep my eyes fixed ahead, focused, determined. My hands grip the wheel tight, and I weave through traffic like a thread through the eye of a needle, my heart pounding in rhythm with the engine’s growl.

That danger sense — one of my more useful powers — comes in real handy when I'm behind the wheel. It’s like having a sixth sense for every pothole, every hidden turn, every pedestrian about to step into the street. I feel the city around me, pulsing like a live wire, every twist and turn etched into my mind like a map.

I cut through the streets like a knife, taking corners fast, dodging slower cars with a hair's breadth to spare. The rain doesn’t help, turning the roads into rivers and making every intersection a gamble, but I don’t let up. I feel the tension building in my chest, the urgency pressing against my ribs, pushing me faster. There’s no time to lose — every second counts, every mile is a heartbeat closer to finding him.

I can feel something pulling me forward, like a magnet, dragging me toward the warehouse district. It’s that gut instinct, that psychic nudge I’ve learned to trust over the years. The visions might be foggy, the dreams full of riddles, but this? This is clear as day. I know I’m headed in the right direction, like a bloodhound on a scent.

The streets narrow as I get closer, the buildings rising like jagged teeth against the gray sky. I swerve around a delivery truck, nearly clipping a fire hydrant, but I don’t let up on the gas. I’ve got a lead, a target, a location — and I’m not about to let it slip through my fingers.

St. Augustine’s spire looms ahead, cutting through the fog, and I know I’m getting close. The warehouses will be just beyond it, dark and waiting. I push the Chevy harder, the engine roaring in protest, but I know this old girl can take it. She’s been through worse. We both have.

I’m almost there. I can feel it. And whatever’s waiting for me in those shadows, I’m ready to face it head-on.

My car screeches to a stop, the tires splashing water across the pavement. I see something in a narrow alleyway just off to the side — it’s him, the guy from my vision, the one whose head is going to be turned into a canoe if I don’t act fast.

I’m up and out of the car in a heartbeat, the rain pounding down on me like the sky's in on the chase. I don’t have time to worry about getting wet. My hand goes to my hip, fingers brushing the grip of my revolver, just in case.

“Hey, you! Milwaukee P.D.!” I yell, my voice cutting through the downpour like a knife.

He reacts almost instantly, whipping his head around like he’s been jolted by a live wire. Poor guy looks like he’s just seen a guardian angel float down from the heavens, and in that instant, he bolts toward me like his life depends on it. And it does.

“Please!” he shouts, panic in his voice. “I’m in witness protection, but somebody found me! Maroni's boys! They’re trying to ice me!”

The name hits me like a ton of bricks. Maroni. The old gangster who practically runs this town's underbelly with an iron fist and a loaded .45. His boys don’t leave witnesses; they leave bodies. And if this guy's been found, his time is running out faster than a racehorse at the track.

"Easy, easy," I say, my hands up in what I hope looks like a calming gesture. "You’re safe for now, but we gotta move fast. How many of 'em? Where are they?”

He’s panting, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. “Three… maybe four. I don’t know! They came out of nowhere, guns blazing. I… I just started running.”

I nod, trying to keep my own heart from racing out of my chest. The clock is ticking, and I can practically hear it counting down in my head. I glance down the alley, catching a glimpse of movement — shadows shifting, the telltale sign of trouble on the approach.

“All right,” I say, “we’re gonna get you out of here. But you gotta stick close and do exactly what I say. Understand?”

He nods frantically, and I grip his arm, pulling him along with me. We’ve got to find cover, someplace to regroup and think. My danger sense is tingling, a hot prickling along the back of my neck. Maroni’s boys are close, and they’re not going to give up easily.

“Come on,” I mutter, dragging him toward the other end of the alley. “We need to find some cover — and fast. Maroni's boys aren’t the type to let a loose end go untied.”

We move quickly, feet splashing through the puddles, and I can feel the tension building like a storm in my gut. I’ve got to get us out of here, got to find a way to keep him alive long enough to figure out what the hell is going on.

That's when I feel it — that sharp, electric jolt at the base of my spine. My danger sense flares up like a warning bell, and I know what's coming. Maroni's boys, just as I feared, are already leveling their guns, taking aim.

No time to think, just react. I grab the guy by his collar and throw both of us into a crouch as the air fills with the buzz of lead hornets whizzing past. The gunfire echoes off the brick walls, and I hear bullets ping off metal, shattering glass. The whole alleyway lights up with muzzle flashes, and for a moment, it feels like the Fourth of July.

I shove the witness aside, hard, feeling the urgency in every muscle. "Get to my car!" I shout over the roar of the gunfire. "Down at the end of the alley! Keep your head low, or you'll be wearing a wooden overcoat!"

He hesitates, fear freezing him in place for a heartbeat too long. I don’t have time for this. I grab his shoulder and give him a shove. "Move, damn it!" I bark, and that does it. He scrambles to his feet and starts sprinting toward the car, keeping low like I told him, zig-zagging through the rain-slicked alley.

I press myself against the rough brick wall, drawing my revolver in one smooth motion. I’ve got to cover his escape, keep their attention on me. I lean out just enough to get a look — three of them, all carrying heat, just as he said. I take a deep breath and steady my aim, waiting for the right moment.

The first goon steps out, trying to get a clear shot, and I squeeze off a round. The bang of the revolver cracks through the air like thunder. He jerks back, not hit but definitely spooked. The second one fires blindly in my direction, bullets chewing up the concrete near my feet, but I hold steady. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through me, sharpening my senses.

I pop out again, firing two more shots to keep them pinned. One of them curses, and I hear a grunt — I might have grazed him. Doesn't matter. Just need to buy enough time for the guy to reach the car. I hear the engine roar to life, and I know he’s in.

"Come on, come on," I mutter to myself, watching the goons close in. I duck back behind the wall as another volley of shots rips through the air, chunks of brick flying. I know I can’t stay here much longer.

I glance back, seeing the car pull out from the alley. Good. He’s moving. Now it's just me and Maroni’s boys, and they’re not gonna be happy when they find out they’ve lost their target.

I grip the revolver tighter, heart hammering in my chest, and brace myself. Time to make a move. Time to give these fellas a reason to think twice before they come at me again.

I wish I was a better shot sometimes, but if I can catch a break, I’ve got another weapon in my arsenal. See, they don’t talk much about the offensive qualities of being a precog — and most folks like me never bother to develop them. But I’ve learned a trick or two along the way. If I can focus, really zero in, I can make other people see what I see. I can force them into visions — nightmares of a terrible fate.

It’s like letting them taste what I get served on a silver platter every damn day, but with a twist. For them, it’s always the worst possible outcome, no matter how unlikely it might be. A kind of cosmic horror show playing out right behind their eyes, and they can’t turn it off. It rattles them, shakes them to their core. And in a game like this, a second’s hesitation can be all I need.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself against the brick wall as the rain pours down like bullets from the sky. I hear Maroni’s boys getting closer, the crunch of their footsteps through the puddles, the whispered curses as they reload. I’ve got to time this just right. I close my eyes for a second, just a second, and reach out with that part of my mind I usually try to keep locked down tight.

I focus on the first goon, the one closest, the one with the twitchy hands and nervous eyes. I latch onto him like a hook in water, feel the connection snap into place. I can sense his fear, his adrenaline, the frantic pulse of his thoughts racing like rats in a maze.

And then I twist, just a bit, sending a ripple of something dark and cold through that connection. I push a vision into his mind, a flash of something that might be, something that could be — a bullet ripping through his chest, the hot pain searing through his lungs, the world going black as he falls to the ground. I let him see it, feel it, taste the blood in his mouth.

He stumbles, his steps faltering, and I can hear his breath catch, a sharp intake like he’s been punched in the gut. His gun wavers, and I know I’ve got him. He’s seeing it now, the whole gruesome scene, playing out in vivid detail.

I don’t stop there. I reach for the next one, the heavy-set guy with a face like a bulldog, and push the same vision, but worse. I show him falling, slipping in the rain, a bullet finding its way between his eyes, and the look of shock and fear as the light fades from his eyes. His hands tremble, his confidence cracking like thin ice.

They start to panic, the two of them looking at each other, then over their shoulders like they’re expecting the grim reaper to show up any second. And in their heads, he already has.

It won’t last long, just a few moments of hesitation, but it’s enough. I push off the wall and bolt for the next corner, my own heart racing as I put distance between us. They’re disoriented, confused, their minds reeling from the visions. It buys me the precious seconds I need.

I keep moving, keep focusing, ready to unleash another wave if I have to. I might not be the best shot with a revolver, but in a fight like this, sometimes a nightmare can be more powerful than a bullet.

I move fast, as hard and as quick as my legs can carry me, feet pounding the wet pavement, rain stinging my face like a hundred tiny needles. There’s still a third guy — an ugly bastard in a nice suit, standing back, watching. The muscle. The one with the calm eyes that say he’s not afraid to take a life and has done it before.

But I can’t push my luck, can’t put too much strain on my powers. I’m already feeling the sweat trickling down my neck, the ache creeping into my temples. Making people see things, feel things, takes its toll. You can’t play with people’s heads like that without it coming back at you like a boomerang. My breath is ragged, and I know I’ve got to rely on something else now — speed and instinct, and that good old-fashioned gut feeling.

I just hope my danger sense is on point, that it’s still keeping me half a step ahead of whatever’s coming. I hear the footsteps behind me, a heavy thud of shoes splashing through puddles, getting closer. They’re trying to box me in, push me toward a dead end where they can finish the job. But I know these streets, know the way they twist and turn, the shortcuts and the hideaways.

I veer left, sprinting down a side alley that opens up toward the main drag. If I can make it there, I’ve got a shot. These guys aren’t stupid; they know they can’t go after me in the open without causing a scene, without drawing attention from every beat cop in the city. Maroni’s boys might be vicious, but they’re not that dumb. They don’t want to bring the whole force down on old man Maroni. Not yet, anyway.

The third guy, the one in the suit, shouts something, his voice deep and rough, but I can’t make out the words. I keep moving, boots slapping against the slick ground, heart pounding in my chest. I hear a gunshot, the crack splitting the air, and feel the bullet whip past me, close enough to feel the air move. My danger sense flares, and I drop low, rolling behind a row of garbage cans just as another shot rings out.

“Come on, Castor,” I mutter under my breath, “just a little further.”

I push up, legs burning, and take off again, keeping low, using the shadows, using every bit of cover I can find. I can see the street now, the glow of headlights, hear the distant hum of traffic. Almost there. I just need a few more feet, a few more seconds.

Another shot, and I feel it pass just behind me, but I don’t slow down. I can hear their frustration now, their voices rising, angry, impatient. They’re getting desperate, and that makes them sloppy.

I burst out of the alley and into the street, breathing hard, my coat flapping in the wind. I turn, just enough to see the third guy pull up short, stopping in the mouth of the alley, his gun still aimed but not firing. He knows better than to take a shot now — too many eyes, too many witnesses. He lowers his weapon, his face a mask of cold fury.

We lock eyes for a second, just a second, and I can see the promise there — this ain’t over. Not by a long shot.

But I’m in the clear for now. I turn and jog toward my car, keeping an ear out for any sign they’re still coming, but I know they won’t. They’re not about to make this public. Not with Maroni’s reputation on the line.

I make it to the car, slide behind the wheel, and take a deep breath, my hands gripping the steering wheel tight. The witness is huddled in the passenger seat, eyes wide, face pale as a sheet.

“You good?” I ask, and he nods, shakily.

“Yeah… yeah, I think so,” he says, his voice trembling.

“Good,” I replied. “Because we’re not out of the woods yet. Buckle up. We’ve still got a long way to go, and Maroni’s boys won’t be giving up that easy.”

I hit the gas, and the car roars to life, shooting forward into the night. The tires squeal against the wet pavement, and the city blurs past, a wash of neon, rain, and shadows. I take a quick glance at the guy in the passenger seat, and he's clutching the door like it might save him, his eyes wide and staring, but there’s something else there too — belief. Pure, raw belief.

And that’s one thing to appreciate about the people whose skins I save: they rarely disbelieve. Maybe it’s because they’re living proof of the things I see, maybe it’s because they’ve stared down the barrel of fate and realized it doesn’t care what they think. But whatever the reason, they don’t question it. They don’t scoff or make jokes or look at me like I’m two cards short of a full deck. They know. They’ve seen enough to understand that sometimes, the world’s darker and stranger than most people want to admit.

I have to wonder just how cursed we precogs really are. Because for all the nightmares, for all the visions that tear at my sanity, there’s this: the people who look at you and see something beyond themselves. They see the truth and they don’t turn away.

Maybe it’s not a curse after all. Maybe it’s just the price you pay for seeing the world as it really is, for knowing what’s coming and still choosing to face it head-on.

I push the thought aside, focus on the road ahead. The rain’s still coming down hard, but I know where we’re headed now, and I’ve got a good idea of what comes next. Maroni’s boys will regroup, maybe call in some favors, but for now, we’ve got a head start. I’m not about to waste it.

I glance over at my passenger again, see the fear still etched on his face, but there’s something else there too. Something that looks a lot like hope. I guess that’s something, at least. A reminder that for every dark vision, every glimpse of something terrible, there’s still a chance to change it, to turn it around.

Maybe that’s all any of us can hope for. Just one more chance to make things right before the curtain falls. And I’ll take that, any day of the week.