“If you truly don’t believe in luck, good, bad, or otherwise,” she mocks, in a gruff voice I assume is meant to mimic my own, “then open the umbrella.” I run my tongue over my teeth. Glance up at the rain hammering on the roof. Fuck, she’s got me there. I’d rather play Russian roulette against my own temple than open an umbrella inside. I’m not even sure if a phone booth counts as inside, but I’m not going to find out.
