Walking to my final interview with James Perry, my phone pings. It’s a text—two images, a series of sketches of diminutive cholla cacti. In three hours, one of them will be inked permanently into my skin. I don’t yet know where on my body it will go, and, in all honesty, I am wholly unaware of the intricacies of how the tattoo will be inked on my skin.

Raquel Rocha Turner reads tarot.