Free Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black) by R. M. Ridley Page A

from The Lucky Monkey amounted to no more than the standard drivel like: ‘Success is a journey, not a destination,’ or ‘Your ideals are well within your reach,’ and even ‘All will go well with your new project.’ The fortune in his hand now felt more personalized, more real.
    But then , Jonathan told himself, it could be a fluke . . . nothing more than being too keyed to the interpretations, more hyper-attuned to the situation.
    His rational voice pointed out that his earlier introspection, added to Wendell’s prediction, had simply skewed his perspective.
    Difficult to tell for certain, either way. He had to file the question away for the moment as something to mull over later, when he was alone.
    “Stay here; finish your tea. I’ll be right back.”
    Jonathan crossed the room to where Bao stood talking with an elderly couple settling their bill. He hung back a few paces until the couple had exited and then approached the front counter.
    In a lowered voice he asked, “Bao, did you start using a new company for your fortune cookies?”
    “No, same cheap crap like always. Bland taste and pointless predictions just like what westerners expect. I don’t want to confuse or distance customers.”
    “Crap,” he muttered.
    “Why? What is wrong?”
    “My client is having some . . . issues, regarding predictions and he just got a cookie with an unfortunate message. I guess I hoped something was different with your order this time.”
    Bao stood up straight, his lips came together in a thin line, and he headed towards Wendell’s seat. Glancing back at Jonathan, he gestured and said, “Come. Come. Show me fortune.”
    Jonathan followed with a sigh—he hated distressing Bao. Wendell stared into the container of tea clasped in his long-fingered hand and Bao gave him a start when he spoke.
    “Most sincere apology, sir. Mr. Alvey says you got bad fortune.”
    “It’s not your fault, I’m quite sure,” Wendell said, looking at Bao. “I wouldn’t get worked up over it, see? I’m sure Mr. Alvey would say the same thing. Right, Mr. Alvey?”
    “I agree the likelihood of it being your fault is miniscule, Bao. My client is having trouble with this sort of thing in general, which is why he has become my client.”
    “Show me—show me fortune,” Bao insisted as his English started to break apart under the duress and his accent thickened with worry.
    Regretting having involved Bao in the matter, Jonathan picked up the small strip of paper from Wendell’s cookie and passed it over.
    Bao nearly had an apoplexy. He began to apologize profusely, moved on to state that the meal was on the house, and then swore he had no idea how such a terrible thing could have happened.
    Jonathan wasn’t going to nay-say a free meal. It wouldn’t be the first one he’d had from The Lucky Monkey. He ordered from them no less than once a day, often more, and had for years. The only time he ate any other food, really, was during the occasional times when he placed himself under the care of the good people at St. Dymphna’s.
    Ever since he had first been admitted, involuntarily as a ward of the court, Jonathan looked upon St. Dymphna’s Institute of Mental Health Facilitators as a retreat of sorts.
    Manipulating a system like that was actually quite easy, with a real and serious reason to do so and the reason isn’t an actual mental condition.
    Having finally been deemed safe to both society and himself, he had been released, time served, from his first significant stint in that facility without any hard feelings towards the institution or those who worked in it.
    He had even retained his ability to enjoy Jell-o, just about the only thing St. Dym’s seemed to think of as dessert.
    After his initial stay, Jonathan used it as a way to drop off the face of the earth when such an action became necessary. If he needed a place to get away from being chased by a herd of nightmares, or an angry chthonic cult, or even the day to day