n my first visit to Echo’s office cubicle, I take a catnip mouse—our cat’s favorite toy.

Before beginning our so-called session she looks up from her desk and warns, "I’m really not supposed to be doing this on company time."

She looks both ways before continuing. "My boss counseled me once before." The word "counseled" is emphasized, revealing a slight trace of contempt. "We could do this after closing time," she suggests. "Like in the parking lot."

"Don’t give it a second thought," I tell her, offering a smile. "I don’t foresee him being a problem in matters relating to me." I’m tempted to say something like, "Hello! My grandfather founded this company. Who cares about your boss’s petty concerns?"

Accepting my actual explanation, she responds immediately, closing her eyes and rubbing the catnip mouse between the palms of her hands, all the while sitting erect in her chair.

With hands in my pockets, I lean against the nearby cubicle partition. As I wait for an answer the rhythmic sound of a nearby copy machine spitting out its pages lulls me into a relaxed state.

She doesn’t disappoint me. After a minute passes Echo eventually whispers the words I want to hear. "Your cat is still alive and well."

Her information is followed by more silence.

I use the additional time to study her plain and simple features—her pale face, long brown hair parted down the middle of her head, the fingernails untouched by polish. A thin reed of a girl, she appears to be in her late twenties; maybe five years younger than me. She’s reportedly worked at this company for seven years, though I don’t recall seeing her before this visit.

Still staring off into space she next discloses the location of my daughter’s lost pet. "He is in the care of a young girl," she says. "Someone who cares deeply for the welfare of all animals." She pauses for a moment before continuing. "Based on the images I am receiving it appears this young girl found your cat walking the streets of your neighborhood, and has merely attempted to offer a temporary sanctuary."

She finally tilts her head up and looks me in the eye.

Her information is somewhat comforting. I respond by saying, "Thank you. It’s good to know all this. When I go home I’ll pass the news on to my daughter. You’ve given us hope the cat will soon be found."

Her face fails to register any emotion. No sense of self-congratulatory satisfaction.

I add, "Maybe this young girl you speak of will notice the flyers I’ve posted on the lamp posts near my house."

My enthusiasm is not altogether sincere. In the back of my mind I’m thinking, "This woman is a certifiable nut case. How can any sensible person claim to be a pet psychic? And how did I ever talk myself into paying 25 dollars for this session?"

I peer over the blue cubicle partition separating her from the adjacent workers and wonder if anyone will recognize me. In fact, all the workers in Echo’s department are busy at their jobs, except the one female three cubicles away who is playing an intense game of solitaire on her computer.

When Echo hands me back the catnip mouse she says, "I know you’re a company big shot. If you don’t mind my asking, will there really be big time layoffs in the coming days? Should I start looking for another job?"

I tap the middle of my forehead with the catnip mouse, hesitate for a few moments, and then finally say, "We expect a significant number of employees will be let go. The economy dictates we take drastic action. But the exact numbers are still being formulated." I honestly have no idea if she will stay or go, but I now plan to make an inquiry regarding her fate.

She responds to my vague prediction with a slight frown.

I empathize with her concern. The thought of terminating so many employees is indeed discomforting. I prefer some other course of action. After all, our family has long enjoyed a high degree of employee loyalty, mainly resulting from our tradition of stable employment practices. This is the first time in company history we have resorted to massive layoffs. But my five-year plan forecasts a rare combination of efficiency and profit if we take this action now. All the company officers have given a big thumbs-up to the plan, enthusiastically labeling me an efficiency expert of the first order, not to mention a breath of fresh air in the meeting room.

The truth is I merely wish this impending human resources ordeal to be quickly resolved--and with as little mess as possible. I prefer to conduct business as usual, mindful of past family tradition, possessing no desire to play the role of the corporate bad guy. In fact, I’m starting to regret having ever advocated this radical restructuring idea. I admit relying too much on my MBA instincts to further my ambition. Needless to say, Echo’s concern is just the sort of thing that casts a pall on the general worthiness of the plan. I feel not unlike a Samurai warrior who has rashly unsheathed his sword and is now obligated to draw blood before returning the blade to its scabbard.

Looking back at Echo, I hand her the twenty-five dollars. She places the crisp bills on the desk and looks away from me once again, as if I am suddenly imposing on her personal space.

On my second visit, conducted during a lunch break three days later, I bring the cat’s hairbrush. Echo clutches the metal object in her right hand and goes into another trance. One of her male colleagues walks by the cubicle, a deli sandwich in his hands. He looks away without expressing any emotion, as if he has seen this all before. Chances are good he has, because her reputation is apparently well known throughout our headquarters building—something akin to an underground company legend. In fact, my own administrative assistant is who recommended Echo’s services to me, telling me all about the missing pet parrot found in a neighbor’s tree, just as foretold in one psychic reading.

Echo holds the hairbrush to her chest for over a minute, and props her spine flat against her chair. Finally, she wipes the long brown hair away from her face and tells me, "Your cat is beginning to enjoy his new surroundings. I feel a certain comfort level emanating from his mental projection. The young girl is treating him very nicely."

A part of me wants to say, "That ungrateful cat has already forgotten all about the people who used to feed him, and such behavior surprises me not one bit," but then I think, "This crazy girl can’t possibly be communicating with a cat. There are basic linguistic considerations that make such communication highly improbable."

I look at the brass nameplate sitting on the edge of her desk and wonder if Echo is indeed her real name. In spite of my curiosity I refrain from asking her the question. Deep down I prefer her name really be Echo, as if that unusual name alone gives her the mystical ability to communicate with animals. I also wonder how a woman named Echo, someone with these unique powers, could ever wind up working in a place as mundane as the Accounts Receivable section of this company.

I spot a photo hanging on the interior side of her cubicle, next to a black-framed employee of the month certificate—the photo is one taken of her at Disney World. The Disney castle is clearly visible in the background. On her desk is another photo. She is standing next to a pier. I recognize the Atlantic City boardwalk. Why did I think someone like her would spend vacations in more exotic locales?

"Can you me a believer, Echo?" That question runs through my mind as I continue to examine her office space.

When she hands back the hairbrush Echo asks, "Do you think my position will survive the upcoming layoffs? I was planning on buying a house in the coming weeks."

"Let me look into your case," I tell her. "We definitely want to keep our best employees."

I detect a slight sense of reassurance on her face.

I leave the office building at seven in the evening. The winter sun has been down for over an hour.

As I get near my car a figure appears out of the corner of my eye. I turn around. A white-haired man in a dark business suit stands in front of me.

"I’ve seen the list," he barks at me. "I’m going to get laid-off."

"I’m sorry," I say. "I don’t think I know your name."

Before I can react he grabs my shoulder, placing a mild grip on me. "What difference does it make," he says. "I’m just another number to you. That’s all. Just someone else who needs to go so you can up the balance sheets."

I take a quick step back and try to get a better look. I rack my brain to match his face with a name.

He lets go of my shoulder. With his other hand he lifts up a briefcase, shakes it at me and yells, "All you young smart ass’s on the third floor think you know everything. You think you can just plug some numbers on a spread sheet and predict what’s good for this company’s future."

I think about running for the security of the car but instead hold my ground. His shocking white hair gives him the appearance of a ghost, and maybe I’m afraid there is no escaping him—that he will merely float inches above the ground, and walk right through solid objects while giving me chase. "Look, sir," I tell him. "Any employee we release will receive the services of our outplacement counselors, plus two months severance pay."

"For God’s sake," he screams. "I’m fifty-two years old. Now one’s going to hire me."

Even in the dark I can see the veins protruding in his neck, and the thickly creased brow. "Please, sir," I tell him. "I’m sure everything is going to turn out okay."

He tilts his head to one side. "How can you tell?" he pleads. "How can you tell?"

As the white-haired man waits for my answer, I insist he disappear, that he dissolve into thin air--as if he were indeed nothing more than a ghostly apparition.

On my third visit, conducted seventeen days after the cat’s initial disappearance, I bring the cat’s plastic food bowl. Echo grabs the pink container with both hands, holds it at eye level, and enters another trance.

While she works, I peer over her cubicle wall and see no one sitting at the adjacent desk. The workspace is empty, devoid of any personal items. The woman spotted playing solitaire on the previous visit is also missing, as is her computer monitor.

Every company officer I’ve consulted thinks the layoffs went smoothly. All the former employees were given one hour to clean out their desks and vacate the headquarters building--these necessary activities conducted under the supervision of our security guards. No negative incidents were reported.

Echo places the bowl down on her desk. "I assume you had something to do with my surviving the reduction-in-force?" she asks of me.

For the first time I notice a small diamond stud embedded on the right side of her nose. That’s more like it, I think. Something odd. I’d feel even better about these sessions if she would also burn some incense, though I realize there must be some company regulation against such a practice.

I shrug my shoulders in response to her question. "Your retention was mainly based on seniority and performance. Believe me, you are considered a valued member of this organization."

I’m not sure whether to tell Echo my daughter has already started to forget all about the cat. We’ve stopped our evening walks around the neighborhood, my daughter preferring to spend the time watching the Cartoon Channel, instead of searching the streets. The "Missing Cat" posters, long faded, have not been replaced. In fact, my daughter is already talking about getting a lop-eared rabbit for her next pet.

But my own curiosity needs to be satisfied. "What about the cat?" I ask Echo. "Can you tell me anything more?"

"I have bad news," she says looking away from me, her arms crossed against her chest. "The cat is no longer living. The little girl accidentally left the cat outside the house one night. A coyote got hold of it. I can now only communicate with the spirit of the dead cat."

"Oh," I say.

She continues. "The cat’s spirit is very weak, and its earthly resonance will continue to degrade in the coming days. I can tell you no more."

The news comes as a shock to me. It’s far from what I expected.

She hands me the dish bowl. Instead of offering any comforting words she reaches for a manila envelope. With her other hand she grabs a shiny chrome letter opener.

It appears the session is over and she is already getting back to work.

I reach for the twenty-five dollars in my pocket.

"This letter opener belonged to my friend," she blurts out, nudging her head in the direction of the next cubicle. "She left it on her desk."

"Was she laid-off?" I ask.

"Yes."

"What happened to her," I ask, trying not to sound defensive. "Has she found a job somewhere else?"

She shrugs her shoulder. Then after a few seconds she smiles, and slowly leans back in her chair. "Wait a minute," Echo says. "Let’s find out." She holds the letter opener to her forehead, closes her eyes and appears to enter her trademark trance. "I see sunshine and blue water." After a long pause an open-eyed Echo proclaims, "Yes. The image is very clear. She is basking in the sun. Drinking margaritas and reading trashy novels on the warm Mexican sand. It appears she is enjoying her sudden vacation in Cancun." She taps the letter opener against her forehead, and then points the tip in my direction. "Yes. That’s it. In fact, she needed the time off."

She looks back at me. There is a silly grin on her face, a twinkle in her eye. "No need to worry about her," Echo tells me. "Everything is working out okay."

I break into my own smile.

Echo is making me a believer.