I no longer predict the future, and with the way things have worked out, I'm beginning to doubt I ever did. People still stop me in the street and ask if I'm Kevin Yarborogh, "the one who had that TV show?" I always deny it, and don't even consider that I'm lying.

It doesn't feel as if I'm that Kevin Yarborogh, I'm someone different now, although I can't yet say who. As I walk away their admiration turns to taunts. "Hey, Yarborogh," they shout after me, one finger raised in my direction, "Can you tell what I'm thinking now?"

When I was at the top of my form I really did some good for people. They'd come to the show and I'd follow my visions through the audience. When the force was particularly strong I'd stop and pull some young woman from her seat and into the aisle. "You came about your sister," I'd say, without needing to ask.

"Yes," she would speechlessly nod, tears in her eyes.

"I see a reunion, but not for another four months. She doesn't want you to see her the way she is right now. It will be another six weeks before she has the courage to go into rehab."

It wasn't always clear, however, that there was only one possible outcome. Several times in a situation like this I'd have to warn the family not to rush the reunion. "If you force her into rehab before she's ready, she'll drop out, run away, and it will be another ten years before you see her." Each vision would be just as clear to me, and just as likely. It would be up to the family to choose which future they wanted to pursue.

Sometimes the visions would be fun. "Yes, play those numbers," I'd say to the future Lotto winner. Sometimes they would send shivers through each viewer's spine as I'd intone, "Whatever you do, don't ride with Uncle Jack on the 27th, and get the keys away from him if you possibly can." I'd get a letter a month later thanking me for saving the audience member's life, and explaining how Jack refused to take a taxi home on the day he died. The letters were the final segment on each day's show.

Most of the people came for the reunions, though. Relatives and lovers long lost filled their thoughts. Their yearning would rip right through me, as they'd look into my eyes for their happy endings. More times than not I'd give them what I was never able to give myself; an answer that would lead to a whole family.

I never knew any family of my own, as I bounced from one foster home to another, rarely staying long enough to build any connections. Each family would quickly tire of my habit of answering the telephone before it would ring, or exposing where my foster father was really heading, as he'd leave the house for a "business dinner."

I could only imagine that my real parents were equally terrified of my visions, and that my foresight was the reason they'd abandoned me. Only being able to see the future, I had no memory of when they put me out, or when my talent first became known. I only knew when each placement would end, and I'd have my bag packed before they could come and tell me the news.

Of course, I knew that the joke would be on them once I got to be rich and famous. By the age of twelve I could already clearly foresee each foster family clamoring outside my future studio, trying to apologize for sending me away, and seeking some kind of financial payback for the few months that they had had to put up with me.


My downfall began in the middle of a live show, with twelve million people to serve as witnesses to my embarrassment and panic. This was not my usual afternoon program, which we tape weeks in advance of the airdates. This was the prime-time special that was supposed to launch me into the upper echelons of television history. Instead it ended my career as a celebrity seer.

The show started strong enough as I marched up to a woman in the fifth row of the audience and said, "He's going to find out in two weeks anyway, but it will go much better for you if you confess before then." She then broke down in tears and confessed her affair to her husband. He was upset, but agreed to accompany her to couples counseling to work on several issues, including his own infidelities. I was riding high as we went into the first break.

Coming back from commercial I had a vision of a dusty, old plaque. I described it to the audience as I walked the aisles trying to figure out from whom it was coming. "An oval, cut out of wood and lightly stained. A green outline frames a key and a saying of some sort."

I was starting to sweat as I realized that I'd reached the top of the stands without being drawn towards any particular seat, or even row. I started to head back down to the main stage and continued describing the plaque. "The key is an old-fashioned skeleton key, maybe four inches long. Above it, the plaque reads, 'THE FORGOTTEN KEY,' in all capital letters."

As I hit my original mark in the center of the stage panic set in. I realized that I'd never gone this far without knowing to whom the vision pertained, or what it had to do with their future. I turned to face the audience and the cameras and had nothing to say other than to keep repeating, "It's the forgotten key. Does anybody know what this key goes to? It's the forgotten key." The director threw it back to commercials and my assistant came out with a moist towel to cool my forehead.

She asked if I was alright as she mopped up the sweat from my brow. I managed to pull myself together as the make-up artist touched up my face, giving me back some realistic color. "I'm fine," I lied, and greeted the audience with a smile as the cameras came back on.

Because this was a special show, we'd invited several of our alumni to sit in the audience and prepared clips of their previous appearances. Unable to shake the vision of the "forgotten key" from my mind, or latch on to any visions for anybody else, I spent the rest of the hour interviewing the returning guests and playing every clip we had.

Returning to the set the following Monday to tape another afternoon show, nobody spoke of our ill-fated prime-time debut, or the disastrous reviews that had filled the weekend newspapers. In fact, they didn't speak much at all, but just tip-toed around me as if they were afraid of setting me off again in pursuit of some forgotten key. They needn't have worried; I would set myself off soon enough.

Only the introduction to the show went well. From there I went into my usual walk into the audience, seeking visions, and one came almost immediately. I was soaring over a string of small islets, it was a tropical setting and it looked like the bits of land were made up of coral. A bridge, miles long, connected the larger islands to the mainland.

Rather than panic when I again couldn't figure out who was sending me the vision, I tried guessing, as if I could fake my way through the show. I described the coral islets and zeroed in on elderly gentleman and pulled him to his feet. "Do you recognize this setting?" I asked him.

He looked shaken and surprised and for a moment I thought I'd hit pay dirt, but then he said, "I don't know what you're talking about and you're scaring me!" I let go of his shoulders and turned down the next row.

"These islands, they're the home of somebody's parents," I was getting more from the vision and I could feel the sense of loss from nearby. I kneeled next to a middle-aged woman and asked her, "You're here to look for your parents, isn't that right?"

"No, my cousin. She doesn't know yet that our Grandmother died."

"And your Grandmother lived on this island, correct?" I realized I was talking faster and beginning to sweat.

She shook her head and slowly said, "Grandmother lived in Utah," as if I was a child who should have known that already.

Standing in the center of the stands I shouted, "Who lost their parents on these damned islands?" Then the stage lights went out and my microphone went dead. As I heard the director announcing that there would be no show taped today I realized what islands I was describing; the Florida Keys.

I also remembered the one thing I knew about my origins; I was born in Florida. I must have been the one who lost his parents in the Florida Keys - the Forgotten Keys? When my producer came to me backstage to suggest I take a couple of weeks off, I was only too happy to oblige. I was going to Florida.


I assumed that the "forgotten key" plaque had something to do with the Florida Keys, and I prayed that I'd be able to put the pieces together once I arrived down south. On the flight to Miami, and then in the rental car heading out to the Keys, I wondered what it all could mean. Were my parents using my powers to summons me? And what did the key go to?

I drove out over the Caribbean following Highway One through Key Largo, down to Plantation Key, then the long road to Marathon and beyond, all without having any idea what I was doing. After Big Pine Key, however, both visions returned to me and led my driving.

It wasn't too much further before I got to Summerland Key and I followed my instincts north up Niles Road. I took Niles to the end and looked out to the off islands. I knew that whatever I was looking for lay beyond the roads. No need to follow Highway One all the way to Key West.

The vision had a hold of me and pulled me like a magnet out of the car and down to the shore where I found a small row boat. I jumped in and started splashing my way violently through the salty water around one little islet, then another. I finally came up on the shore of the smallest, furthest key I could imagine and saw a small structure. To call it a cottage would be an exaggeration, but I knew it had been my home.

The door to the cottage had a faded, weather-beaten, red notice stating that the property was condemned. Inside the place was a shambles. The dusty remains of rotting, crudely made stick furniture lay beneath years of spider webs and mold. I looked around the two rooms and started digging in the filth for some clue as to why I was drawn here; some clue to my origins beyond the obvious poverty to which I was born.

This close to the ocean and the elements, not much survived to piece together a story. As the sun began to fade, and I was about to give up for the day, I found what I had been looking for. In a corner, beneath what must have passed for a bed, I saw the plaque from my visions. I reached for the key, but my fingers were deceived. I picked up the plaque and blew the dust away from the surface. It read "THE FORGOTTEN KEY," just as I had pictured it, but key was not real; it had been painted on.

As I stood staring at the plaque I became aware of somebody coming up behind me. I turned, half expecting to come face-to-face with my parents. Instead I saw a young deputy sheriff holding a flashlight. When he saw my face he said, "Well, Hell! You're Kevin Yarborogh! I'm real sorry about how your show went the other night."


The owner of the row boat I'd stolen had called for the sheriff. Luckily, being a fan, Deputy Morris understood that the vision I had on the show had led me here, and he was willing to do what he could to keep me out of trouble. I offered to pay for the use of the boat and no charges were pressed. Deputy Morris then helped me search the county records for details about my family.

The cottage had indeed belonged to a couple named Yarborogh, but had been condemned for nearly twenty years. There was no record of what happened to the Yarboroghs, where they might have gone, or any children they might have had. We found no social security numbers or birth dates to follow-up on. Only the purchase of the cottage, and their subsequent eviction, had been preserved in the county hall of records.

I returned to the airport a few days later with the "FORGOTTEN KEY" plaque, but precious little detail of how my parents had lived, who they were, and why they had put me into foster care. All I had was this stupid plaque I couldn't understand.

There was something else missing as well; since stepping out of the row boat onto the island I'd stopped having visions. Try as I might, I couldn't get inside anybody's head. Even walking through the crowded Miami airport I couldn't tell where a single soul was going.

Checking in for my flight, I passed my suitcase across the counter to the ticketing agent and that's when I saw it. The monogram on my bag read "K.E.Y." - for Kevin Edward Yarborogh. I was the forgotten key!

I understood at once; the "forgotten key" was the child that they had had to give up. Yes, I was the forgotten key; only my parents had never really forgotten me. They'd made that plaque to keep my memory alive. It was I who had forgotten them. I'd put so much effort into seeing the future that I didn't realize my own answers lay behind me. With that fatal error, I lost any hope of ever returning to my family.

Then, robbed of my chance for a past, and no longer able to see the future, I boarded the plane back to Los Angeles. It was time to learn how to live in the present.