The Art of Prediction

“Go to hell!” the old man shouted as Alesia walked along the street.

She was saddened by this, but it wasn’t too far off from the usual fare she received in public. No matter where she went, someone was sure to give her an earful, either of praise or hate. Usually hate.

It wasn’t like she did much to deserve it. All she did was stand up every night, point at a screen, and say, “Tomorrow will be – ” and fill in whatever the forecast was. People watched, and were either pleased or angry. She couldn’t change what was coming. She could only report.

Some days, of course, Alesia got it wrong. It was an inexact science. Until the day people could actually control the weather, there would always be uncertainty.

But Alesia was right more often than wrong – had a 73% success rate, as a matter of fact, and that was good for almost any field.

Still, wherever she went, whenever she went, someone had an opinion, and she had to listen, and smile, and thank them for the feedback, or just ignore them.

Alesia sighed, and wondered why she hadn’t chosen something easier. Maybe teaching, she thought. Or medicine.


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