Stanford was used to stupidity in Gravity Falls, but this was another level.

He told himself no one truly believed in psychics—yet the crowd adored him. He hated admitting how much he liked it. The applause, the awe… it lingered longer than he’d admit to Stanley. The carnival was profitable. That alone was inconvenient enough.

Inside his tent, he hung his coat and sat at the table. The crystal ball held a trapped blue triangle.

“Hello, William,” he said. “Ready for work?”

The triangle bristled—then the flap shifted behind him. Ford straightened, smile snapping into place.

“Welcome to the Tent of Telepathy,” he announced. “Step inside… if you dare.”