Chapter 1: Scoop's 1 Scoop's
I PICK UP THE ice cream scoop, and the vision begins.

I see a familiar light-skinned hand with knobby knuckles and dirt under the nails, passing the scoop I'm holding into a new, unfamiliar hand as dark as mine. This new hand is amply lotioned-no ashiness in the crease between the index finger and thumb. The nails are clipped short. A glittering, diamond-encrusted ring indicates this man must have more money in his wallet than I'll make in my entire life. But the most telling detail, the revelation that might affect my future, lies in the background. Behind the two hands, sitting on the grass, is the sign that hangs over the front door of this place-the one that says SCOOP'S. In my vision, someone's leaned it carelessly against the white siding, which is coated in a thin layer of green and black grime, the kind that builds up over months of neglect.

Scoop, the owner of this place, is going to sell the business.

I blink, directing all my focus into darkness, the abstract, nothing. I breathe. I think the word stop, and silently, I command the vision to end. When I open my eyes again, I'm looking down at the scoop in my hand. I'm back to the present day, turning the scoop over in my fingers. Only a second has gone by in the real world, even though I just watched a twenty-second vision. They always last only a moment.

I blink back into reality, still staring down at the scoop in my bare hand, and I briefly consider telling Scoop. But what would it change? What good would it do?

When you own the shop, you can make the rules, he'd say.

He's never listened to my ideas before-not when I suggested we invest in a shelving unit so we can finally organize the supply boxes obstructing the hallway, not when I suggested we buy blackout curtains for the front lobby so the afternoon sunlight doesn't turn this place into an oven, since we're a damn ice cream shop and we can't operate at ninety-five degrees without jacking up our refrigeration costs. Nah, he won't listen to me, and even on the off chance that he does, Scoop doesn't do anything without asking a million questions first. And my only answer to the inevitable question, "How do you know for sure?" will be "I can see the future," an idea so ridiculous that I didn't even believe it until I got out of that hospital and it started interfering with my daily life. I can't touch anything with the palm side of my hands without seeing what will happen to it in the next few moments. The longer I touch it, the further into the future I can see. With most things, I can make the vision stop a split second after it begins, so it's more like a photograph flashing in my head, but if I want to see further, which is rare these days, I can let it keep going for as long as I'm touching it.

I've picked up this scoop so many times working here. I've seen myself holding it while I'm wearing a tank top and my arm is glistening with sweat. I've seen myself holding it with my long sleeves tucked over my knuckles as the front door swings open and gusts of snow flurries fly in behind a customer who has no business buying ice cream in that kind of weather. Then it changes hands-a white hand is scooping ice cream as customers enter in tank tops. More kids staring from the other side of the counter in bathing suits and sunglasses. Then, gradually, people coming in with their hands red from the cold, fingers curled around hot coffee cups, ordering through the scarves pulled up over their faces. Two summers. Two winters. I'd say Scoop has about two years left before this