JOHN LANGENFELD • WINTER/SPRING 2018
On one of the evenings I called my sister from county jail, she told me she’d gone to see a psychic. A year earlier. World-renowned. Supposedly knew her stuff. Becky said she handed the woman my picture, asked if she could get a read. Said the psychic held it for a minute, told her I was lost in drugs. Warned that I was headed for trouble. Six months later I was facing a life sentence. Becky apologized for not telling me sooner. Said she felt horrible she hadn’t. I told her not to worry. It wouldn’t have changed a thing.