Psiphon sat uncomfortably, wedged between a rattling window, and a woman with too many grocery bags and an addiction to sunflower seeds. She ate them with the shell still on, a few at a time, crunching them around in her mouth like a cud, or maybe like some natural-food masochist’s idea of chewing gum. After a minute or two of mastication, she would spit them into her gloved hand, slowly, pushing them with her tongue through loose, out-puckered lips. The sputeous detritus would then be shaken out into a plastic bag, and hand and mouth wiped absently with a stained linen handkerchief.
He was just about to give up, and extract himself from this unpleasantly sticky situation. He’d made up his mind to give it one more stop, when he felt it. A woman standing at the front, seemingly in her late thirties or early forties, finished fumbling with the pass in her purse, and began walking down the aisle toward him. As she approached, eyes set on a newly-emptied seat near the back, the unmistakable “fuzz” grew stronger between his temples. Anyone with psionic powers had a distinct signature to how they felt in his head, and he knew this one. Oh, he knew it for sure.