On Thursday night, pre-Allen arrival, I was sitting in the kitchen at the Lad’s, pretending to be a cockroach. I had my index fingers pressed to the sides of my forehead and I wiggled them at the Lad’s back as he did the dishes. “So are we playing Get Out tonight?” asked the Lad.
“We could,” I said. “But what if I’m a cockroach?”
“Well, that would complicate it.”
“But see I can touch them,” I said, touching the tips of my fingers together. “Not all cockroaches can do that. It’s a genetic trait, like with humans how some humans can roll their tongues and others cannot.”
“Really?” said the Lad, turning and calmly watching me cross my eyes and tag my fingers together.
“No,” I said, “that was a lie.”
The next day, I encountered the God of Cockroaches behind my coffee maker. After some consideration, I realized that my imitation of a cockroach on the previous night and subsequent discovery of one surely meant I had been hit with a rare, though temporary, prognosticative ability which the universe sometimes grants to those who are worthy. To test my theory, I tried a game of minesweeper and won without even trying.
Eight hours later, I had used up my entire allotment of foreknowledge, but my minesweeper high score is now out of this world.