Free The Shibboleth by John Hornor Jacobs

somewhere.
    â€œHow ’bout some Scrabble?” Rollie asks. I’d been staring at the singing girl, and the question jars me a little.
    â€œNah.”
    â€œIt’s getting close to lunchtime anyway. Let’s go.”
    She should be hungry now, since she didn’t eat anything this morning.
    Back in the cafeteria, we join the line as Rollie again has an appetizer of fingernails and cuticles. She grabs a tray and motions me to do the same.
    The big bull-nurse stationed near the door watches closely. My back and knees ache where I fell to the ground when the electricity pushed into me, like Quincrux. My muscles feel achy and sore like in the onset of flu. My eyes won’t open fully, andthere’s a thrumming in my ears and surging in my blood.
    â€œHey, you don’t look so good,” Rollie says. “You should eat something. Try the rectangular pizza.”
    The conversation slips away. We approach the stainless steel line where the food is served. There’s some sort of meat patty swimming in brown gravy, mashed potatoes, evil-looking green beans swimming in grease, and, sure enough, a tray of rectangular pizza. Rollie takes some green beans and Jell-O and a milk. I get cranberry juice.
    We sit in one of the less densely populated tables, Rollie facing me, her big eyes still watching my every move.
    I take a bite of the rectangular pizza. Industrialized food, made with government cheese. I can taste it, and for a moment, I’m reminded of Moms and Holly Pines Trailer Park, out on the edge of the piney woods, out beyond everything I now know. Every month a packet filled with info would arrive at the trailer, pamphlets leading us toward job fairs and alcohol rehabilitation centers. But nestled amidst all the junk mail was an electronic benefits transfer card. Food stamps for the new millennium. Getting food for the family, for Vig and Moms. This was my job.
    The memory floods me, like the taste of the cheese and the sugary-sweet tomato sauce and the cheap over-leavened pizza dough. Cheap food for disposable people.
    I swallow and quietly, very quietly, I ask, “You said it was coming, from behind your eyes. What does that mean?”
    Rollie takes a bite of the green beans and grimaces, putting down her fork. “These beans are too squeaky,” she says, looking away. “I hate squeaky beans.”
    â€œRollie. This is important.” I don’t know any way to makeher understand. “I believe you. I just need to know what you mean.”
    Rollie does everything but look at me now. Confronted with what she said, she clams.
    I sigh, spread my hands. They already think I’m crazy. What does it matter?
    â€œRollie, I’m going to tell you a secret. Okay?”
    Finally she looks back at me, but reluctantly. She suspects a trick. And I don’t blame her. I’m sure she’s been tricked before.
    â€œYou won’t believe me. You’ll think I’m—” I make loony circles around my ear with an index finger and whistle tunelessly. Rollie giggles. “I’m here because I can read minds. I can get inside folks’ heads. Or I could, until they drugged me.”
    I let it sink in.
    Her gaze does this little dance across my features. She frowns, and when I don’t react, Rollie smiles a little shyly, batting her eyes and nibbling on her lower lip. With some weight on her, she could be cute. Pretty, even.
    And those eyes. Like swimming pools you’d like to dive into.
    â€œYou’re cute. You don’t have to make any of that stuff up just to get with me.”
    â€œNo, I’m serious. There are things happening out in the world, and what you said—”
    â€œI didn’t say anything.”
    â€œAbout the thing that’s coming. Coming through your eyes. I need to know what you’re talking about.”
    She shivers and says, “This Jell-O is terrible. Black cherry? Who likes black cherry?”
    â€œI