Roscoe Jr. pushed his way through the flap and into the tent. From within the smoke and the stench, the manager regarded him with cold disinterest.
“I’m here to join up.”
“This ain’t the army kid. Can you do anything interesting?”
“I read minds.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the trick? Plant in the audience? Our last guy…”
“No, i mean: I read minds.”
The manager said flatly, “Can you read mine?”
Roscoe closed his eyes. When he made contact, he knew it was already too late, that when he opened his eyes he’d be looking down the barrel of a revolver.