Private Jetway, Jackson Hole, Wyoming
On the way out the door to the airport, Sheridan opened her purse to check for the essentials: driver’s license, AirPods, red lipstick. Sheridan frowned. For a moment, the way the November sun cut through the windows made the new tooled leather look plain pink instead of its actual rich merlot. Either the light in the Village Booterie was off or she was.
While sliding her sunglasses into the purse, she shuddered like she’d just been hit with an icy blast, and all the hair on her arms stood straight up. She knew this feeling. It wasn’t a bad or good feeling, just a premonition—and a vague one, at that. It didn’t come with an associated word or image. But still, a feeling like this meant something was about to happen. Not the kind of feeling you want on your way out the door to the airport.
No matter. Sheridan Lane was a psychic.Thepsychic in certain circles. One vague feeling wasn’t going to interfere with her schedule. Sheridan slipped the purse over her body and gripped her wheelie bag like she was in charge. But as she locked the front door, the feeling lingered. The heavy unease slowed her pace untilshe came to a full stop on the sidewalk in front of her Jackson Hole condo, hanging on for dear life to a rolling bag.
A glance at her phone didn’t confirm or deny her premonition. There were no urgent texts regarding illness, death, or divorce, no weather alerts, no shocking national news—except for the burning secrets she was keeping to herself. Was she conflating fear and foresight? No, she understood her fear and had accepted it. This premonition was different.
Then her phone dinged, making her jump out of her skin. She had a text.
“Can’t remember. Do I need to feed Leonard today or is it tomorrow?”
Jesus. She had forgotten to check in with the neighbor. Sheridan responded:“Both. I’ll be gone through Sunday. I left his food bin on the counter. He’s gonna beg but only give him ½ cup a day. Thanks!”
Sheridan sighed. The only emergency was her cat’s waistline.
She didn’t have time for vague feelings today. She was on her way to DC. The president of the United States was waiting for her.
It’s not like she had clear plane-crash vibes. She simply felt unsettled, like she’d left the stove on, and the house might burn down… but probably wouldn’t. While she waited for the driver to arrive, she shut her eyes and listened. Being a psychic was eighty percent paying attention.
That’s what she was always telling her clients.Listen to yourself—your thoughts and intuitions, to the world around you.
There were fewer actual psychics in 2025 than there ever had been. The human attention span had reduced to the point thatpeople couldn’t watch to the end of a TikTok reel without scrolling to the next, let alone be in the moment enough to listen to the universe or read even the most obvious signs. For about the tenth year in a row, humanity was in the Year of the… “Squirrel!” If you can’t focus for longer than five seconds, you can’t be a psychic. End of story. Bottom line.
Her clients loved it when she used phrases like “Bottom line” or “Here’s the deal.” It’s part of how Sheridan kept her client list. She’d been described before as “If George Bush were a psychic.” Now there’s a man she could have helped. You didn’t need to be a psychic to know a guerrilla war in the Middle East was not going to be quick or winnable. That was a man for you—start a war instead of listening.
That’s part of the reason she’d gone into politics, not as a politician of course, but as a guide to some of the biggest fools on the planet—politicians. Someone needed to do something. Men understood the way she talked to them. How many times had she been like, “Gary, shut up and listen.”
Not that psychics don’t lie. She was a damn dyed-in-the-wool liar.
A driver pulled up in a black SUV and helped her load her luggage into the back.
While she buckled up, he asked, “What kind of music would you like for the drive, ma’am?”
“Ma’am? Do I look like your mother?” Sheridan snapped. She might be fifty-five, but she looked forty-seven, tops. Before the big man could apologize, she said, “Country.” People always expected her to listen exclusively to yoga background music, but she couldn’t help it if she was from Wyoming.
The ride to the airport was peaceful. They drove past theJackson Hole Square with its elk antler arches and cute shops. She was probably just headed into a difficult session with President Simon. The reelection campaign was really getting to him and starting to wear on her, with all the emotional labor she’d have to do on his behalf.
When she finally looked up from her thoughts, they were pulling up to the private jetway.
“Sir,” she called into the front, “I’m sorry. I’m going to the regular airport. I’m flying Delta.” She had a layover in Denver before landing in DC, much later than she would have wanted.
“I got instructions from the higher-ups to take you to the private jetway. A plane is waiting.”
She leaned back in her seat. “Really?”
It kind of made sense. She was flying out at the president’s request. “No one told me about this.” Sheridan kept still. “Do I have this plane all to myself?” Had she suddenly become Taylor Swift?
“I believe there is one other passenger.”
“Who?”
“Genesis Love.”
She’d choked on a hot dog at the Laramie County Fair when she was a child. She hadn’t been that starved for oxygen again until this moment.
When Sheridan caught her breath, she said, “Genesis Love, the movie star?” His last movie,Power Couple, was like a three-hour-long acid trip. If he hadn’t been wearing a Speedo throughout, she probably wouldn’t have been able to sit through it. Maybe if you were high on something, it would make more sense. He used to be an A-list action star, but she’d mostly heard about his wellness empire lately. He’d gone Gwyneth Paltrow.
