I met an old woman by the river. She was feeding the ducks, muttering to herself. When I walked past, she grabbed my wrist and pressed something cold into my palm—a small coin. “Make a wish,” she whispered, “but only one.”

I didn’t believe in that sort of thing, but for fun, I wished for something stupid—to always know the right answer.

It worked. I aced tests. I knew what people wanted before they spoke. But then, I realized something. Some answers, I didn’t want to know. Like when my best friend asked, “Will I be okay?”

And I knew the answer was no.