The gypsy looked up at Rob.
“Ahhh…” she said. “You are going to die today. You will be hit by a car. I’m sorry.”
Rob stood up. “I want a refund!” he shouted. The woman shook her head.
“I may be wrong.”
Rob kept close to the side of the building as he walked home. No cars seemed ready to veer towards him, so he began to relax.
As he reached the door of his apartment, he turned to check the street for homicidal cars, and the window-box eight stories above him broke, dropping three heavy flowerpots on his head.
When help arrived, he was pronounced dead on the scene.
The next day the gypsy read about the freak accident in the newspaper and shrugged.
“No one said fortune-telling is an exact science.”
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