The harmonica player first noticed his ability during a terrible gig in Medicine Hat. Halfway through a slow blues in E, he suddenly knew with complete certainty a waitress near the back of the room would drop a tray of drinks in exactly seventeen seconds. He kept playing. Seventeen seconds later the crash arrived right on schedule, followed by shouting and an apology. At first he dismissed it as coincidence. Then it happened again. And again. Over the following months he discovered that while playing harmonica he could see small fragments of the future. Not grand prophetic visions involving wars or alien invasions. He saw practical things. Which audience member would ask for a song request. Which amplifier would fail. Which drunk would attempt to dance and injure himself. He became uncannily accurate. Promoters consulted him before outdoor festivals. “Will it rain?” they asked. Usually he knew. His reputation spread. Soon he could see further ahead. He knew which marriages would survive. Which businesses would close. Which politicians would later become disgraced. He knew which friends would become ill years before symptoms appeared. The information accumulated inside him. What disturbed him most was discovering how little people actually wanted the future. They claimed they did. Everyone said they wanted certainty. Yet whenever he tried to warn someone, they became defensive or frightened or angry. One guitarist demanded lottery numbers. A singer wanted to know whether her album would succeed. A club owner asked if his wife was cheating. Nobody asked philosophical questions. Nobody wanted wisdom, just leverage. Eventually he stopped talking about the visions. The strangest part was that the future itself seemed less fixed than people imagined. He would see possibilities branching constantly. Small choices altered outcomes. A conversation delayed by five minutes. A missed flight. A chance meeting in a parking lot. A different guitar pick. Life looked more like jazz. One night in Winnipeg after a concert at the Hi Lonesome, a young man approached him and asked the question he had secretly hoped someone might ask. “If you can see the future,” the man said, “does it help?” The harmonica player thought for a long moment. Then lifted the instrument to his lips and played a slow phrase that drifted into the darkness. When the note faded, he smiled. “Not really,” he said. “But it has made me appreciate surprise.” Then he walked away into the night already knowing how the conversation would end, and still somehow enjoying it.