She looked up at him quickly, meeting his eyes and biting her lip, thinking that it would be supremely ironic if he did, in fact believe her. It didn't matter, though. She knew from experience that even if they didn't, she was in no danger of being locked away for what she would say. One of her foster parents had threatened that once, but the State had made it quite clear that as Cassie was in no way violent, she would be staying right where she was.
She sipped her water, weighing what she could and should say, then closed the cap, her thumb running over the ridges in the plastic lid. Her nails were short. She didn't have the time or money for manicures, and she found long nails more trouble than they were worth.
"It started when I was twelve," she said suddenly, feeling a strange sense of deja vu telling him almost the same story she'd told his father. "I had just had my first period, and my mother was pregnant. I dreamed that she miscarried with complications. Well, actually, I dreamed the baby clawed its way out of her belly like in Aliens. And then, two weeks later, it happened. Her, dying from a miscarriage, not the Aliens thing. My father, he was in the Air Force and he'd been stationed over seas when it happened. He came home and I dreamed he died and he did... the same night. The shrinks have always maintained that either I dream this stuff up after it happens, or that I only think I dream it and it's my subconscious feeling survivor guilt. They drugged me to try and get the dreams to stop, but nothing worked. I... I dreamed about your father's death, too, but I couldn't get a warning to him. I tried, I really did, but the foster family didn't have a phone, and they locked us all in very carefully. By the time I got to a phone, I only got the church's voicemail. He never did call me back. I assume... I assume that meant I was too late."