I jump to the side.

The minivan slams into the street light I was just leaning against.

The screech of metal decimating plastic assaults my ears, and the scent of burned rubber scorches my nostrils.

Unblinking, I stare as the minivan’s front turns into an accordion under the pressure and tilts the lamppost toward me.

With a metallic groan, the base of the lamppost detaches from the pavement and falls like a chopped-down tree.

I jump away a second before the one-way sign attached to the lamppost has a chance to cleave through my neck.

Panting, I stare at the wreckage in front of me in disbelief.

Did this just happen?

And what the hell was wrong with that driver?

Realizing the idiot might be in bad shape, I pull out my phone with unsteady fingers and dial 911 to report the accident.

When they ask me about the fate of the driver, I tell them I have no idea. The car is too banged up to see through the windshield, and I’m afraid to come closer to check.

Given my luck today, the car might explode, or worse.

After I hang up, it occurs to me that bad luck—or at least, bad luck alone—might not be the reason for all these mishaps. Frantic, I look around to see if I can spot Chester in the crowd of gathering onlookers.

This is the second accident today.

If the former Councilor is not involved, it’s a doozy of a coincidence.

My hands have finally stopped shaking, so when I hear sirens, I pull out my phone to check on the car that’s supposed to pick me up.

I should’ve guessed it.

The car is already here.

It’s the one that almost killed me.

I take a deep breath and summon a new ride. As I’m doing that, a fire truck and an ambulance arrive on the scene with an ear-piercing whine of sirens.

I watch with morbid curiosity as the firemen pry open the damaged car. As the door opens, I hear the person inside yell something in the deepest feminine voice I’ve ever heard. Either this lady smoked unfiltered cigarettes for fifty years, or it’s some strange side effect of the accident.

“Put me down,” she roars as the emergency personnel strap her onto a stretcher. “Can’t you see I’m fine?”

My ride arrives, and as I get in, I spot the still-screaming woman jumping off the stretcher and sprinting away like an insane person.

How is she so spry after that horrific crash?

As we pull away, I catch a quick glimpse of her and realize that maybe this wasn’t a woman after all. Though she has breasts, she’s built like the Hulk. Could she be a bodybuilding champion? At least her physique might partially explain how she’s still moving.

Though I don’t get a good look at her face, I do spot a layer of makeup as thick as drywall and features that must’ve been upsized by anabolic steroid use—that or she, like the guy earlier, has a bunch of Neanderthal DNA.

Something about the DNA idea gives birth to a nebulous theory, but it’s extremely hard to think with all the adrenaline still pumping through my system.

To calm myself, I start the breathing exercises Lucretia taught me the other day. After a couple of minutes of this, I talk myself into facing Nero’s emails.

As is becoming routine, the first email is full of good news. Apparently, Nero had a trader invest as per my suggestions, and a couple of stocks already doubled in price during lunch—an almost unprecedented success. What’s extra strange is that these extraordinary performers are from the bunch where I didn’t do any research at all, just used the stock name to tickle my intuition.

Did my powers help me with these stocks, or am I just a lucky monkey? For that matter, did my powers save me when the recent accidents nearly happened?

If yes, could this be why I haven’t had my vision dreams lately? I certainly could’ve used a dream to forewarn me of things falling on my head and cars trying to slam into me, but maybe the dreams somehow “knew” I’d be okay on my own?

And if I did utilize a preternatural intuition, is that what Nero meant by awake visions? If so, it’s a terrible term since I’d expect something by that name to be, well, more visual.

I don’t need psychic powers to guess the content of the next email, and Nero doesn’t disappoint. He wants me to research more stocks, and this list is even longer. My boss clearly doesn’t care how I’m making him so much money; he just greedily wants to milk this cow until it falls over dead.

Realizing I compared myself to a cow twice today, I decide to use the golden goose metaphor going forward.

Since I did so well with my stock picks sans research, I’m going to apply that “strategy” to three quarters of the stocks on this new list—which should allow me to spend about five minutes on each of the remaining quarter and hopefully get home at a reasonable time.

I start working on the assignment on my phone, but a text from Ariel interrupts my stock-guessing game.

Felix told me about the construction site accident. Did you talk to Nero yet?

I text Felix to let him know he’s the biggest gossip I’ve ever met and contemplate following my friends’ advice.

With all this work I’m doing for my boss, why not force him to be useful for a change?

Opening my work email, I write a short and sweet message to Nero:

Can I talk to you in person?

His reply is almost instant:

I have a window on Tuesday at 11.

He’s going to make me wait four days? My jaws tense and I start writing an angry reply but then stop myself. Why did I just get so upset? Considering how reluctant I was to speak with him in the first place, this response is irrational. I guess I want him to take his Mentor role seriously. Then again, he doesn’t know this has to do with being a Mentor, so I should give him a chance to learn that fact.

I change my nastygram to:

This is urgent. Need you as a Mentor.

His reply is even faster this time:

Can you talk on the phone now? If this has to be in person, I only get back from San Fran tomorrow.

I didn’t realize he was away. That makes his Tuesday offer a tiny bit more reasonable, so I’m glad I reconsidered the nastygram.

My phone rings before I get a chance to type up an affirmative reply.

It’s a video call from Nero.

Taking in a calming breath, I accept the call.

Nero must be in the gym because I see the buffness-creating torture equipment in the background. Not surprisingly, the fancy gym he’s in is equipped with top-of-the-line video conferencing equipment, which means my boss doesn’t have to hold a phone, like the rest of us. What is more disturbing is that said video equipment gives me a very good look at the sweat beading on Nero’s forehead and the veins popping out of the bulging muscles under his skintight sleeveless shirt.

A shirt that makes it look like he was dipped in caramel.

Realizing where I’m staring and salivating (at the thought of caramel, of course), I shift my gaze to his face. Is that concern in those predatory features, or annoyance at having his workout interrupted by a lowly minion?

“Have you been harmed?” His strong chin and prominent cheekbones, highlighted by the sweat slicking his face, give him a particularly fierce expression.

If he suddenly growled and bit the camera, I’d be only mildly surprised.

“I’m fine,” I say. “But I nearly died.”

“Tell me everything.” He crosses his arms across his chest. I don’t know if his goal was to show off his biceps and pecs, but the gesture successfully accomplished it.

Focusing on maintaining eye contact in order to avoid ogling my boss’s inappropriately hot bod, I tell him about my recent dunking in the harbor, the things that nearly fell on me, and the car accident. I also mention my theory about Chester.

“You did well to bring this to my attention instead of involving the authorities,” Nero says when I’m done. “I will remind Chester how to stay alive.”

The way he says the last bit sends a shiver down my spine. I definitely wouldn’t want to be Chester if something happened to me.

I see movement behind Nero. A face I’ve recently seen on the cover of Forbes magazine appears in the camera view and says, “Is everything okay? I could use a spot.”

I stare, dumbfounded. Nero’s workout partner is the CEO of a popular social media platform and one of the richest people on the planet. He probably made more than my annual salary in the minutes he was forced to wait for Nero because of me.

“Everything will be fine,” Nero tells his billionaire gym buddy. “Give me a second.”

“I don’t have anything else to add,” I say as quickly as I can get the words out. “You should go.”

“Let’s still talk face to face on Tuesday,” Nero says and reaches up to touch something on the camera in front of him—a movement that gives me an up-close look at his sinewy forearm.

“Of course,” I say breathlessly, and the connection terminates.

Shaking my head, I get back to my list of stocks, squinting at my phone for the rest of the trip.

When I get to my desk, I’m able to proceed with my research at a much faster pace, thanks to the multiple screens and proper keyboard. I’m almost halfway through when I get so hungry it messes with my focus.

I head down to the cafeteria and get Thai green curry with mango sticky rice. As I get into the line to pay, my phone reminds me to call Baba Yaga.

I dial the number.

“Izbushka Na Kurih Nojkah,” says a pleasant female voice in fluent Russian.

“Hello,” I say. “Would it be possible for me to speak with the owner of your establishment?”

“I’ll put your call through to the manager,” the girl says with a thick accent. “Please hold.”

“Dobriy vecher,” a male voice says a second later. It sounds like dried bones being pulverized by a giant mortar and pestle.

“Hi,” I say warily. “I wanted to speak to the owner. Is she around?”

“And you are?” the man asks, his English better than the hostess’s.

“My name is Sasha. You probably don’t know me, but—”

“You came snooping around earlier today?” he asks. “Touched one of the chicken legs?”

“Um, yeah…”

“You’re Sasha Urban, right? A new member of our illustrious community?”

Is this restaurant a front for the KGB or something? How the hell does he know I came earlier? Or have my full name for that matter? “That’s me,” I say carefully. “Is there a community newsletter I’m not aware of?”

“We make it our business to be well informed at the Izbushka,” he says proudly.

“All right.” I try not to sound as uneasy as I feel. “May I speak to Ms. Yaga?”

A spine-chilling noise comes out of the phone, and it takes me a few moments to realize the guy is laughing. “She never speaks on the phone to anyone, but she will speak with you face to face.”

“That would probably work even better,” I say, wishing I believed that myself. “Can you set up a meeting for me, please?”

“Be here on Monday at eleven p.m.,” he says imperiously. “Do not be early. Do not be late. Ask for me, and I’ll take you to her.”

“And you are?” I put down my tray next to the register and hand my credit card to the cashier.

“Where are my manners?” the voice on the phone mockingly says. “I’m Koschei. Think of me as the manager of this establishment.”

“Okay, Mr. Koschei,” I say. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

The manager cackles like an evil villain again—something about English honorifics seems to amuse this dude. Finally, he gets his laughter under control and says, “I will see you soon, Ms. Sasha.”

I hang up and wipe my sweaty palms on my dress before grabbing my tray and heading to the office.

The rest of the day passes in a haze. By the time I finish my crazy workload, I’m completely drained. My neck is sore, my eyes ache, and I bet I could sleep for twenty hours straight.

Turning off my monitor for the weekend, I slip off my high-heeled office shoes, put on a pair of ballet flats, and head out.

On a typical Friday, I’d ride my Vespa, but since it died an honorable death, my options are the subway or a cab.

All the yellow cabs that pass by are busy, and when I pull out my phone, I see that the ride-hailing apps are in surge mode, which means I’d have to wait longer and pay through the nose. Given that the subway is a mere block away, I schlep there.

I doze during most of the ride but wake up in time to exit at my station.

Walking under the street lights, I make a depressing assessment of my life. Part of the reason I wanted to quit Nero’s fund and become an illusionist was in the hopes that I’d be able to see the light of day—literally. Now that my magic career is poof and gone, the extra workload he keeps giving me makes me—

My gloomy thoughts are interrupted by a nearby pedestrian and his dog.

The dog is a mahogany monstrosity of the Neapolitan mastiff breed. A massive creature, it looks to be at least a hundred and fifty pounds and stands almost three feet tall.

As someone who got assaulted by a pug when I was eight, I get understandably uneasy. Seeing dogs like that awakes in me the same emotions that our primitive ancestors must’ve felt at the sight of a lion—though, granted, ancient humans might’ve been slightly calmer if they’d seen a leashed lion walked by another person.

But no matter how scary the dog is, it’s the owner who gets my attention. He’s so huge and muscular from the back that his dog looks like a Chihuahua in comparison. What is up with all these giant people? Did someone add steroids into the water supply?

Then I recall the half-formed theory that flitted through my mind when I saw the woman who almost hit me with the car.

Walking faster, I reach into my bag and palm my phone in such a way that the big guy won’t see it when I get in front of him.

I speed up, and when the dog stops to relieve his bladder, I get ahead of the pair.

Without looking back, I sneak a picture with my phone camera and slow my gait.

In my peripheral vision, I see the big dude and his dog pass by me, so I crouch to pretend to tie my nonexistent shoelaces.

When they’re a few feet ahead, I exhale the breath I’ve been holding and check the secret picture I just snapped.

As I feared, this man also has that Neanderthal look. In fact, his percentage of that DNA might be even greater than that of the guy from the construction site and the woman from the accident.

I stand up, turn around, and briskly walk away from the massive man and his dog.

Twice today, I saw people that fit a specific genotype, and twice I almost got killed in an accident.

Coincidence? Unlikely.

And now I just saw yet another person who could be the big brother of the other two. Plus, when I was drowning, I saw someone extremely big through the water.

So, for whatever reason, a group of people who look this way is out to get me. Perhaps I should be ashamed of this sort of Neanderthal stereotyping, but I find it hard to believe this guy isn’t somehow connected to the previous people with that build.

I’m likely on the cusp of yet another “accident.”

My heart slams against my chest as I pick up my pace. Hopefully, to Chester or any other onlookers, I appear to be just in a hurry, like every other New Yorker.

I’m a few blocks away from my building, and though I’m taking a roundabout way to get there, I should be home in a few minutes at this pace.

When I get to the corner, before turning, I glance back at the suspicious man and his canine accomplice.

The pair is more than half a block away from me at this point, which is good, but the owner is staring right at me, which is very bad.

The giant looks both pissed and disappointed.

I don’t think he’d realized I’d walked away until now.

To my utter horror, he shouts something to his dog and releases the leash.

The folds of the dog’s smooshed face seem to twist into an evil grin as the massive creature charges at me.