Where the cat leads.

You follow the cat outside, coffee still in hand, slippers absolutely not rated for November.

It leads you down the block, past houses with their last pumpkins slumping on the steps, and stops at the end of your driveway. Sitting in a pile of leaves is a perfectly smooth black stone. The cat taps it once with a paw, looks at you, and leaves.

You put the stone in your pocket. Somehow your whole day goes right after that.

Your fate: chosen by a familiar.

Everyone else spends Friday the 13th avoiding black cats. You got picked by the one.