Free Dead Anyway by Chris Knopf

is hugely significant if you think about it. It means that most people who aren’t researchers go through life thinking things that aren’t true, and never discover their folly.
    In the case of the makeup project, this principle proved itself in spades. It turned out I wasn’t the first to be intimidated by the process, so the manufacturers worked hard to make everything as easy as possible. The prosthetics were so lifelike, it made me think they’d plasticized actual tissue. The bonding material that joined rubber to flesh was also easily applied and wholly natural as long as you took your time and meticulously followed the directions.
    Temporarily overcome by the possibilities, I almost turned myself into an African-American, but prudence led to a white lad with a nice California tan, a shock of weathered blond hair sticking out of a Jeff cap, and a sharp, aquiline nose. It took about four hours to build to my satisfaction, but it was an endeavor worth achieving in its own right, and thus, a good use of time.
    One of the most surprising things I found was the lack of discomfort. I assumed heavy makeup was nearly unbearable, but all that plastic was light on my face, barely noticeable.
    Who knew.
    F RANCINE TOOK a long time to open the door after I pushed the big brass doorbell. It was late afternoon, and the hard, dim light did little to brighten her features, though enough to confirm she was neither young, nor attractive, despite the efforts of her hairdresser and plastic surgeon to prove otherwise.
    “I prefer appointments,” she said, squinting up at me.
    “Okay. When can I come back?”
    “You don’t have a phone?” she asked. Her accent was born in one of New York City’s five boroughs, but she’d been away too long to tell which. I guessed Brooklyn, with little confidence.
    “Actually, no.”
    I patted the outside of my jacket as if one might magically appear.
    Francine sighed heavily.
    “I suppose I could do it now.”
    “That’d be cool,” I said.
    She turned and walked back into the gloom of her salon. I followed, shutting the door behind me. Inside was the caricature of a mystic’s lair, as if created by a set designer whose only reference was theatrical cliché. Skulls lit from within, shrouds covered with runic symbols hanging from the walls, a hookah on a painted art-nouveau side table, and in the middle of the room, under an ornate ceiling lamp, a round table with a crystal ball. The act fell down a bit with Francine’s outfit, a pink workout suit stretched to the limit over her bulging figure, and high-top white sneakers, worn badly to the outside by her tiny, pronated feet. Her only concessions to the role were a necklace made of several beaded strands and long fingernails, better to stroke the frosted globe.
    “Sit, sit,” she said, dropping down herself into the opposite chair. “Fifty bucks for the first fifteen minutes,” she said, looking at the ball as if her rates were floating around inside. “And another fifty if you want the whole half hour. That’s a lot of fortune-telling. Most places you’re lucky to get ten minutes. Though determining luck is one of the things we specialize in here.”
    I peeled a hundred dollar bill off a thin roll of cash stored in my shirt pocket.
    “I’ll go the whole hun’erd,” I said. “No point scrimping on your life’s prospects.”
    I couldn’t know how much it mattered to her whether she took fifty, or a hundred, or a thousand dollars out of the transaction, but the upgrade seemed to prompt greater interest. She hiked the straining waistband of her workout sweats up over the deep crease below her belly and wormed her butt more comfortably into her chair. She cupped the phony-looking crystal ball in both hands and closed her eyes.
    We sat silently for a nearly unbearable ten minutes. Then she took my hands, which she worked between thumb and index finger.
    Finally she said, “It’s been a very painful recovery, but you’ve made