She nods again and puts her hands back in her jacket pockets and turns. I watch her go—the even pace, the straight shoulders, the auburn hair in the morning light—and I feel the partial bond running warm and constant in my chest.
I should be focused on finding the undoing. Iamfocused on finding the undoing. I meant every word. She didn’t choose this, she deserves every option, I will turn over every stone.
And while I’m turning over the stones, I’m going to be honest with myself about one thing: The partial bond happened because something in me, in the deep instinctive place that doesn’t consult the rest of me, recognized something. I’m not telling her that. But I’m not pretending I don’t know it.
She reaches the corner of Main Street.
She doesn’t look back.
The bond hums.
I go back inside to find Ryan, because Ryan will havealready started making calls, because that’s what Ryan does, and because I need to know everything there is to know about partial bonds before she disappears out of town.
I told her I’d have something soon. I intend to keep that promise. Even if part of me is hoping the answer is more complicated than she wants it to be. I’m working on that part.
We finish our coffee and head in our separate directions, which is still mostly toward the carnival grounds. Like pretty much everyone in this town, we’re involved in making sure it’s running and a success.
The setup crew is in full morning mode, the last of the heavy infrastructure going in. The smell of Tristan’s test batch from yesterday is still ghosting through the air and mixing with sawdust.
I run into Lola again standing on the outskirts of the carnival grounds. She looks at me for a moment, doing that fast-processing thing, reading me, taking inventory, deciding what category I go in. She doesn’t tell me to go away, which I am counting as an invitation.
“You again,” she says.
“It’s only a small town.”
She’s doing some kind of surveillance on the place as she stands there. Exits, occupants, layout. It’s fast and it’s practiced and most people wouldn’t catch it.
“You do that a lot?” I ask.
“What?”
“Check the room. Count the exits.” I pause. “There are four, by the way. Two main, one service road, one river path. If you need to know.”
She looks at me sideways. “Why would I need to know that?”
“You tell me.”
The pause that follows is a single beat too long. “Habit,” she says. “Crowded spaces.”
“Sure,” I reply, in the tone that meansI don’t entirely believe you but I’m not going to push itwhich is a tone I’ve developed for situations like this one, where pushing would close a door that’s currently slightly ajar.
She drifts toward the game alley, which is still being set up. The pin bowling frames are assembled but the actual pins aren’t out yet, the prize display is half-hung, and someone has left a box of stuffed animals in the middle of the walkway that is an absolute trip hazard.
I move the box without breaking stride.
“You work at the carnival every year?” she asks.
“We all do, more or less. Jack-of-all-trades, pun obviously intended.” I gesture at the alley. “This section’s mine. Games, prizes, general chaos management.”
“You manage chaos?”
“I curate it. There’s a difference.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Managed chaos is controlled. Curated chaos is…” I think about it. “Intentional. You pick the right chaos for the right moment. Let it run exactly as far as it should and nofurther.”
She’s quiet for a second. “That’s either very wise or complete nonsense.”
