My name is Milo Reyes, and I am very, very good at a very, very useless skill. I don't pick locks. I don't hack satellites. I don't move product or run crews. What I do is simpler, older, and in a city this distracted -- almost embarrassingly easy. I pick pockets. Grand Central Market on a Saturday? That's a mortgage payment. Dodger game, seventh inning, everyone reaching for their beer? Retirement planning. The Metro at rush hour? That's just Tuesday. I learned from a woman named Esperanza on Alvarado when I was fourteen. She said the trick isn't your hands -- the trick is your eyes. Find the people who are somewhere else in their heads, and become their blind spot. Become the dead air between their thoughts. I'm not proud of it. I've told myself that story for fifteen years and it never quite stuck. But I'm telling you now because you need to understand the baseline -- the ordinary Tuesday of my life -- before I tell you what came after. Because what came after changed the texture of everything. Before that afternoon on the Expo Line platform, I thought karma was a bumper sticker. Something people said after a parking ticket. I know better now. Karma, it turns out, has a return address. And it isn't on this planet.