The card on the right calls out to you the most; your mother always comments on your curiosity, and the question mark on the card is a puzzle begging to be solved. You reach out and pick up the card. It’s made of thick, heavy cardboard. Your fingers have barely closed around it when you feel an odd sensation, as if your gut was being pulled out of you. Your vision wavers; everything goes dark.
When you open your eyes again, you’re still backstage. You look down at your hand but the card has disappeared. A shiver runs down your spine: this is real magic you’re messing with, not some hat trick. You look down at the table and realise with nervous surprise that the card has somehow returned back to its original position on the table.
Back on the table? You frown. What were you thinking? You haven’t picked up the card yet. Or have you? Maybe you dreamed about it; the images slip through your mind, fragmented, hazy. The adrenaline must be messing with your mind — it’s physically impossible for the card to have moved by itself.
You take several steadying breaths, and try to shake off your concerns. You can’t be going crazy now, making up all sorts of stories.
You examine the table again. The handwritten note says, quite simply, “Pick any card.”
The cards are all face-up, each of them plain white with a black symbol drawn upon them. One card has only a question mark upon it, the middle card has a straight, horizontal line, and the leftmost has a circle. It’s all gibberish to you.
Your eyes stray to the curtain, only steps away. It could be fun to walk onto the stage, and it’s probably safer than messing with the belongings of an infected.
What do you do?