Page 48 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“Devastatingly specific answer.”

"I can be overly graphic sometimes."

We do the Zipper. We do the ring toss, which he wins on his second try and hands the stuffed eagle to a kid nearby like it’s second-nature, and that does something unfair to my heart rate.

At the strongman game, a carnival worker with forearms like ham hocks makes the mistake of egging Jeremiah on, and within four swings a small crowd has gathered to watch a professional hockey player demolish a rigged high striker. The bell doesn’t just ring. It detaches. It sails off into the dusk in a slow, tragic arc, and the carnival worker stares after it the way you’d stare at a piece of your own soul leaving. Jeremiah wins a second stuffed eagle, roughly the size of a golden retriever, and gives it to me.

“Had I known it was your birthday, I’d have something better for you.”

But I squeeze the plushie, pushing down tears, because nobody has ever done something like that for me before. Not even my dad (who is a good dad despite being a criminal), because my childhood was spent at poker games and small grifts, and the only time we’d ever go to a carnival was for the easy pickings.

“I love it,” I say, and I mean it.

At one point in the day, he does not seem to register that four separate beautiful young women have already recognized him and are filming from behind a funnel cake stand. I notice it like I’m on recon and can’t help it. Old habits don’t take a holiday just because it’s my birthday.

“You’re famous,” I say, nodding at our small, unofficial paparazzi corps.

“Occupational hazard.” He presses his hand at the small of my back and guides me somewhere away from his adoring fans. “You’re surprisingly unbothered by it.”

“I have a good poker face,” I reply, which is the truth, but he laughs like he thinks I’m the cutest thing in the world. I could get used to this.

We keep walking when a kid barrels out of the crowd like he’s been shot from a cannon. Maybe ten years old, and he skids to a stop about six feet from Jeremiah like he’s hit an invisible wall.

His mother is a few steps behind, hovering at a respectful distance.

“You’re… you’re Jeremiah Precio,” the kid says, like he’s confirming it for the record.

“Last time I checked.” Jeremiah crouches, drops to one knee on the pavement, funnel cake grease and all, so they’re eye to eye. “What’s your name?”

“Mason.” The word comes out barely above a whisper, and then Mason just stalls. He stares at Jeremiah like he’s forgotten every other word he owns.

His mother closes the distance and rests a hand on Mason’s shoulder. “Sorry, he’s normally not this quiet.” She laughs, a little breathless. “He’s a huge fan. Watched every second of the Olympics, I mean religiously. He’d love it if you signed his jersey.”

She already has it in hand, a West Stars jersey pulled from her bag, a Sharpie tucked against it. “He’s not wearing it. Too hot today.”

“I’d be honored.” Jeremiah takes the jersey, still kneeling, and smooths it flat against his leg. He signs it slow and deliberate, like it deserves better than a scrawl.

Then he holds it out to Mason, and that’s when the kid’s whole face crumples and tears flood down his cheeks.

Jeremiah doesn’t stand. He just opens his arms from where he’s kneeling, and Mason shuffles straight into them, tears running down his cheeks, jersey clutched between them.

“Hey.” Jeremiah’s voice goes low. “Thank you for coming to say hi to me. That took guts.”

When they finally pull back for the photo, Mason is still fully starstruck, cheeks wet, and he poses anyway with the biggest, toothiest grin I’ve ever seen on a human being, his whole face gone red. It’s the cutest thing I have ever witnessed in my adult life.

Mason’s mother mouths thank you at him over her son’s head. Jeremiah just nods and smiles.

He stands and ruffles Mason’s hair before we keep walking.

“That was really sweet,” I finally manage.

“I love kids.” Jeremiah says it like that settles the matter, like he hasn’t just wrecked me a little.

Boy Scout doesn’t begin to cover it.

A while later, we eat kettle corn out of the same bag, which feels more intimate than it has any right to. We talk about nothing, and everything, for what might be two hours and might be four, because time has apparently stopped being a real thing that applies to me today.

“Tell me something about yourself,” I say at one point. “Something… quirky.”