Ted had been thinking a lot lately — about powers, their capacity and their range, their nature, their source. From very small concrete points, he would extrapolate in a half-dozen directions, following and following a thought until it ended in five-dimensional bloom of mystery. He wasn't thinking about it to find answers, really. He didn't expect answers to come in his lifetime. But he did want to expand his thinking, to find a way short of dropping acid to unlock a part of his mind, or his destiny, and to become more of a psychic than a man who could land a coin on tails for a half-hour straight.
He took himself to a lot of places, looking for the right inspiration. Maybe he should have thought of the race track sooner, but a warm, sunny day was a good excuse to drive out to Las Almas. He ate nachos and spent an hour people-watching, race-watching, learning the basics of the track's routine. The engines were deafening, and as the bikes lined up before a race, the noise became hypnotic. He stared, feeling the dozen mechanical heartbeats reverberating in his chest, feeling them rattle and pulse; in a kind of trance, his eyes unfocused and lightened in color, and he, he saw—, felt—, sensed number 88 winning, number 12 winning, number 12 winning. Then the race started and he sucked in a startled breath; he looked around for anyone near him to share this revelation. "Twelve's going to win. Watch!"