Birthright

“You’d make a good dealer,” Brian said, subtly taking the container from her palm. He looked around to make sure nobody was looking at them, muttered, “Telekinesis,” in case he was supposed to focus on something specific, and then tossed it back, hoping the momentum would coax any remaining liquid out. A few droplets hit the roof of his mouth. He tapped it like a ketchup bottle and then handed it back with a sour face, “Man, that tastes horrible.”

A waiter approached and asked if they’d like a round of drinks.

“Yeah, water,” he said, wiping his palms on his jeans.