The Starship sped up and the kids were standing on air. I saw them secretly loosen the straps. The little ones shimmied their legs around until they were sideways. They stuck like spiders to the wall. There was a girl in the laughing crowd, a dark-haired girl in a shirt striped red. She looked at me. The Starship hit top speed and the music thumped and still she was looking at me. I glanced down to make sure Mort had left the yellow bucket and the mop. Usually they stared because they were trying to fix on something, to keep from puking. But she didn’t have that desperate look. I lifted my eyes and she was smiling. At a boy across the ring? No, definitely at me. Her teeth flashed around the circle, glowing green in the blacklight. The music thumped. The Starship whined. I raised my right hand weakly. To say stop, I guess: Stop looking, stop smiling, stop. She raised her hand, trembling against the ropes of gravity. To say: Hey. I felt so spun I couldn’t stand. I jammed the old black lever back. As the Starship slowed I dropped to my knees down in the booth, pretending I was looking for something. A tape, a paper towel, a lighter, whatever. I kept my head down as the kids tramped out, sneakers squealing on steel. When I stood, diamonds dancing in my eyes from the draining blood, she was gone. I haven’t looked at them in a long time. I swear.

There are three good things in Terry’s life. Kraft macaroni and cheese. Bob Ross on the PBS. And his one friend, Myrna the Mermaid.

Three good things seem like enough. More than enough, really, after all the bad things that happened when he was 12. His father's useless death. The cats who multiplied in his mother’s stinking house, hissing things only Terry could hear. His cruel, first and only girlfriend. And what he did that afternoon in the winter woods…

Since then Terry has kept the bad thoughts at bay. He’s content with his job at the carnival and his three good things. Until one day a 4-Her smiles at him and asks him to fix her rabbit cage. He knows he’s not supposed to talk to her. But maybe he can; after all, it’s been twenty years since everything. Since the cats. Twenty years since the tracks.