"You're here," said her mom, Rachel, before Andie even put the key in the lock. Being blind, Rachel's other senses were highly enhanced. Andie jiggled the key trying to find the one angle and amount of force that would unlock Rachel's persnickety door. During this drama, which involved some choice curse words, Andie's phone buzzed in her purse. She peeked to see who had texted her. Oliver! Her heart sped.

He probably only texted about the investments report.

He's not texting about business, said Bad Andie. At least not the boring kind.

"Are you coming in, Andromeda?" Andie winced. God, she disliked that name.

"Yes, Mama," she said.

The Venice Beach apartment smelled like burnt zucchini bread, marijuana, and sandalwood incense burning in Rachel's many alters. Anderson Cooper blared from the living room. Pilot, Rachel's seeing-eye dog lumbered into the entry and allowed Andie to pet him before returning to the well-worn spot on the living room rug. It was weird how much that dog loved Anderson Cooper. His affection for the cable news host wasn't even the strangest thing about Pilot. His most bizarre feature was his almost human eyes.

A strange man, shiny bald on top of his head, ponytailed at the bottom, rather snowman-shaped body, sat in the kitchen table next to Rachel, hunched over the table eating burnt zucchini bread. Must be a client.

Rachel had quite a big following. Rachel knew she wasn't psychic. She did however believe her seeing-eye dog, Pilot, was. According to Rachel, the golden retriever read the client's future and communicated his findings to Rachel telepathically. Because the predictions generally turned out to be true, her business kept growing, which caused Andie a lot of mortification. Bad enough she had a father in prison for embezzlement. Why couldn't she at least have a mother who wore mom jeans, cut her hair in a sensible bob, and listened to Mozart? Nope. Andie's mom was a professional psychic, with long wiry grey braids who lived over a medical marijuana dispensary and listened to grunge. At least for now, Rachel's fame was confined to the local Venice Beach community.

"Hi, Mama," Andie said, setting down her things and kissing her mom's head.

"Say hello to Wolfhart Wingsong. Wolfhart, this is my daughter, Andromeda."

"Call me Andie. Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure."

He pressed his stubby fingers into the burnt crumbs and licked them.

"Nice flowers," said Andie.

"Wolf brought them for me," said Rachel, smiling.

"They're from one of my earth-conscious, sustainable farms, where we grow our produce cruelty-free."

"I see," said Andie, who didn't see at all how one would cultivate cruelty-free produce.

"Wolf is the owner of Chi Pets—a chain of new-age pet stores featuring an all-vegetarian line of canine cuisine." Pilot growled so loud Andie could hear it over Anderson Cooper's warning about the first hurricane to hit the west coast in decades.

"Global warming." Mr. Wingsong tsked.

"Al Gore blames global warming," said Anderson. "Televangelist Pat Robertson blames West Hollywood. Unnamed others blame ..." Anderson dropped his voice, " ... aliens."

Pain sliced through Andie's skull. She pushed against her temple, where it felt like a geyser of pressurized acid tried to escape. Not fair, thought Andie. I didn't bring up the subject. Why she expected the aliens to be anything other than unfair, she had no idea. Andie ran into the living room, grabbed the remote, and clicked off the TV. Pilot whined, but Andie's cranial pain subsided so she didn't much care.

"Well, Andromeda, dear. Wolf and I are leaving."

"Leaving? I just got here."

"We'll be back later tonight," Rachel said, slipping a shawl from the back of a kitchen chair. "Wolf is my sponsor, but we're also dating. Pilot will stay with you if that's okay."

"Of course, Mama," said Andie.

"Thank you. Oh, by the way, Sterling called about a hundred times."

"I'll call her back. And what do you mean he's your 'sponsor?'"

"Chi Pets is going to sponsor my new radio show—Rachel Bank and Pilot the Psychic Wonderdog."

"You're going on the radio?" Andie said, aghast.

"In national syndication," said Mr. Windsong.

"But ..."

"We're late, Andromeda. There's zucchini bread on the counter, and Wolf's left something special for Pilot in the cupboard."

Pilot growled.

"Oh, and Pilot asked me to tell you that Sterling is about to ruin her life. Also, he says you need to keep him by your side while I'm gone." Mr. Windsong helped Rachel put on her shawl. "Yes, Pilot. I told her. No, I'm not telling her that. You should tell her yourself. I know you could talk to her if you tried. Bye, dear."

The landline rang.

"What? I mean, hello," said Andie.

"So you exist," said Sterling.

"I was just going to call you."

"You are too important now to return my calls, texts, or e-mails?"

"Don't be ridiculous ..."

"Don't tell me what to be. I needed you."

Andie checked the kitchen cuckoo clock. She had time to rescue Sterling from the airport and make it back for dinner with Oliver. "I'll come get you."

"I'm on the runway."

"So? You're the big star. Boss around the flight controllers. I'm sure they'll do what you want. Everyone else does."

"You know I'm not like that," Sterling said, sounding wounded.

"You're making a big mistake. I'm trying to help. Don't mess with your beautiful face. I love you the way you are. You don't need to do this for your career or to compete with stupid Gigi Gaines or whatever it is you're doing. Please, Sterling."

"I'm doing it, Andie. You have no idea what it's like to be me. I have no choice. It may seem like I'm a big Hollywood power broker, but I'm only a pawn."

"You do have a choice." Pilot edged toward Andie and began licking her hand. "Yuk. No. I didn't mean you. It's just Pilot wanted me to tell you ..."

"The captain says to turn off all mobile devices."

"It's your plane. The captain can ..."

"I can't hear you," said Sterling. "The engines are too loud."

"But Sterling. There's something I haven't told you."

"What?" said Sterling. "Oops. Gotta go. Bye."

"Ouch," said Andie. "That hurt." Pilot had nipped her. On purpose. He looked at Andie with those enormous eyes, colored a dark shade of judgmental brown. "What, boy? Sterling wouldn't have listened even if I told her the great and powerful you predicted she was ruining her life. If she wouldn't listen to her best friend, why would she listen to a dog?"

Pilot juddered a warning growl.

"That's right. D-O-G dog. Live with it." Pilot strutted away, rigid tail stuck in the air in a gesture that looked remarkably like Pilot was flipping her the bird.

Andie showered and actually took over two minutes to dry her hair. She applied mascara and eyebrow pencil. (Even though Talia was evil, she was right about Andie's uneven eyebrows.) Her expression in the still-foggy mirror alternated between goofy grins, when she thought about her date with Oliver, worried frowns when she thought about what Sterling was about to do, and sheer mortification when she thought about her mom taking her psychic gig to national radio.

Andie pushed down the unpleasant thoughts and slipped on the only dress she'd packed—a short strapless pale pink confection. The satin lining slid against her body like a lover's caress. Oh, no. Andie decided she better cut out the romance novels. Wait, she never read romance novels.

Guilty, thought Bad Andie.

What? How did Bad Andie read something without Andie knowing?

That's for me to know and you to never, ever find out.

Oh great. Now she had to endure the mystery of how a scrap of Andie's own disembodied brain matter had access to an entire genre of reading materials, which she somehow read in secret. Despite this disturbing development, Andie grinned. She slipped on her pink kitten heels and threw on a white sweater. A pair of pink crystal earrings completed the ensemble.

All right?

It's passable, said Bad Andie, but Andie could tell her bad self-approved. The dog barked like crazy from the other room. "Quiet, Pilot. I'll feed you in a minute."

By the time she was ready to leave, her cheeks ached. Mostly from grinning. Whether she and Oliver were meeting to discuss the investment report or to declare their undying love, it didn't matter. All Andie knew was she would be in his cinnamon-scented presence, gazing into his pulsing LED-blue eyes.

Andie grinned while reliving Oliver's kiss.

Ummmm. Wow. Please, more of that.

Bad Andie and good Andie agreed. Oh, no. What did it mean? Were her two halves becoming one like the Mystics and the Skesis in The Dark Crystal? Hopefully not. Bad Andie, left unchecked, would lead her to a very dark place—one filled with spiders, hellfire, clowns, and telemarketers. Andie shuddered.

Andie found Pilot perched solemnly next to his food bowl, ignoring the CNN News Hour. Wait, how had Pilot gotten the TV back on? Andie lifted her eyebrow, but Pilot did his best to look innocent and doglike. Andie switched off the TV, opened the cupboard, and found a St. Bernard-sized bag of Vegetarian De-lite slenderizing organic dog food festooned with a red bow. Andie read the card: To Pilot, for an ethical life. From Wolfhart and your friends at Chi Pets. Pilot whined.

"I know, buddy. It defies nature. But this is all we have."

Andie filled his bowl. The stuff smelled like stale beer. "Yuk. Sorry, boy. I'll see you later. I'm late for my date." Pilot scooted past her and lay down to prevent her from opening the door. "Up." Pilot—all seventy-five pounds of him—leaped at her command at a corpse-like speed.

The pup whined again. "I am going out." He ignored her.

"Move it."

More corpse-like behavior ensued.

"It's fine, Pilot. I know you don't want me to leave you, but I have a very important... uh ... business meeting. All right. You can come and protect me." Pilot stared at her guilelessly.

"I'll get you some real chicken." Pilot snapped out of her way as Andie knew he would. Pilot was a poultry man ... no ... dog.

Pilot pulled at his leash. Andie didn't have to communicate telepathically with Pilot to know exactly how he felt about being tethered to a human. This was one reason he had flunked out of seeing-eye dog school. The other was that he would just as soon walk his human into a pole as safely traverse a crosswalk.

The beach was eerily vacant—like the street after her near-death experience with the Hummer the day of her interview. The wind turned icy, and Andie regretted her wardrobe choice. It never pays to dress for a man. To make matters worse, Pilot refused to cooperate with their progress toward the café.

"Chicken, Pilot. Think chicken. Yummy chicken for the puppy."

The pup rolled his eyes. Andie knew he hated when she resorted to baby talk with him, which only made her want to do it more. She tugged harder on the leash. Pilot sat. She was now officially late, and they were barely a quarter of the way to the café. Andie dug into her purse for her cell phone. Where was it? Hadn't she slipped it back into her bag? How long would Oliver wait?

"Please, Pilot."

Pilot froze in a sphinx-like position next to a palm tree.

Andie decided to tie him to the tree, run the rest of the way to the café to let Oliver know she wasn't standing him up, and then go back and retrieve the retriever. "Okay. Sorry buddy, but you leave me no choice." Pilot growled.

"Bad boy."

Pilot whined, drooped his eyes in a pathetic attempt at looking pathetic.

"Not going to work. I won't be too long because I'm freezing. Some of us don't have a fancy fur coat like you do."

She took off in a run, no easy feat in kitten heels. Pilot howled. "I'm not falling for that, Pilot," Andie said, refusing to give him the satisfaction of turning around. He barked incessantly.

A cloud wafted across the moon, and the sky darkened. A cold wind whispered against Andie's neck. Even though she had warmed significantly since running, she shivered. Andie could not ignore Pilot's hysterical barking, though the growing distance between them lowered the volume. Andie heard footsteps hurrying behind her. She turned her head slightly to the side even as she increased her pace. There was definitely more than one person following her. A gang. Her heart now beat so hard she thought it might exit her chest, which made for a disconcerting and disgusting image. Again, Andie reviewed her pitiful kickboxing experience.

The yellow light outside the diner beckoned. The ocean crashed against the shore. Andie made her way past some 100-foot tall palm trees that surrounded the interminable stretch of gravel that was the cafe's parking lot. Why did a tiny diner devote so much real estate to parking? And why were there no cars in the lot? Then she remembered—Kate's had closed over a month ago. She noticed the "For Sale" sign in the window illuminated by the yellow light. How could she be so stupid? She kept running despite a stitch in her side, the gravel crunching under her feet like hundreds of bones breaking. Gulp. Why couldn't the sound remind her of childhood mornings chomping down a quick bowl of Rice Krispies with Sterling? Oh, bother. That made no sense.

Focused on the terror of being tracked like prey, the strike of silver light that flashed six feet in front of her came as more of a shock than it might have if she had been focused on the reality of what lay in her path. But if she were honest about it, even if she had been more mindful about living in the moment, the flash, like a bolt of silver lightning and the stink of ozone, would have scared her shitless. As with the kickboxing, she also sucked at the whole yoga/meditation/in the moment thing.

A silvery image of Talia, all perfect and glowing and as self-satisfied as a cat looming over the carcass of a partially eaten mouse, remained after the initial flash of light dissipated. Wait, that made Andie the partially eaten mouse in this metaphor.

"Talia," Andie said.

"The one and only."