Dina had a gift. A sixth sense. Some call it luck. Others call it witchcraft. Her neighbors just called it annoying.
She could always find a parking spot. Always. In Brooklyn. On a Saturday. During a street fair. During alternate-side restrictions. During a miracle.
She’d pull up, blinker on, and—behold!—someone would pull out. Every. Single. Time.
People began to notice.
They whispered.
One guy in a Prius followed her for three days, hoping to mimic her ritual. She caught him on day four holding a candle and muttering “parallelus parkus.”
Then came the challengers.
Vinny from the deli bet her a year of turkey-on-rye that he’d get a better spot than her. She parked directly in front of the entrance. He circled for 45 minutes and got towed.
The neighborhood grew paranoid. Rumors spread: that she paid off traffic gods, that she had a garage hidden underground, that she once dated a parking meter and things ended... amicably.
But the truth?
Dina just believed.
She’d pat the dashboard of her beat-up Civic like a genie’s lamp and whisper, “We deserve good things.” That was it.
One day, a frantic man waved her down.
“Please,” he begged. “I’m late. Hospital appointment. My wife’s in labor. You have the gift. Help me.”
Dina nodded solemnly. “Follow me.”
Two blocks later, a minivan pulled out in front of the maternity wing.
The man wept. “You’re a saint.”
She just smiled. “Believe in the spot, and the spot believes in you.”
She drove off into the sunset—blinkers on, destiny glowing green just ahead.