At the far end of the Shire, where flan colored grass grew tall and thick and the winds from the hills above swept down, cool and fresh like an after dinner mint, Nancy stood, eyeing the canvass bungalow before her. She looked down at the small, cream colored card in her right hand and read, yet again, the message printed on it: ‘Fame and Fortune: Are they yours? one free consultation with professional psychic.’ Someone at the front gate had given it to her the previous weekend. "Go on," egged Morgan from her seat on the road side out front,"that’s a thirty dollar value." Still, Nancy was skeptical. "Don’t be scared. I’ll wait here, finish this thing," her friend persisted, picking bits of debris from a large, puffy gingerbread-man she had earlier dropped. "If all that walks out of that tent within the next hour is a newt or something weird, I promise I’ll guard it with my life, feed it meal worms and crickets." Nancy gazed at the massage parlor across the street. Don’t they as well charge thirty dollars? she pined, acknowledging a dull, throbbing kink in her lower back. Above her, a hanging sign wobbled in the breeze, the words ‘Fame and Fortune’ carved into it. She looked again at her coupon. It was not a massage coupon. Swearing never again to succumb to such absurdity, Nancy finally shrugged her shoulders, walked past a small planter box of wilted candy-striped petunias and stepped inside the tent.