Page 137 of Just One Little Bargain

He’s trying not to peer back at it. Eight days from now, he’ll be gone. After that, this will be one more human thing he may never see again. One more pleasure Hell has no use for. I care about him enough that the fear no longer gets to make this decision alone.

I can do this.

“We’re riding it.”

His face lifts. “Are you sure?”

“No, but we’re doing it anyway.”

Maddie extends both arms. “Plushies. Give them here. I’ll be right at the bottom.”

It’s barely a setup, honestly. A folding table, a cash box, and a perforated roll long enough to hang a man, staffed by a kid who’s uninterested in my existential crisis. A sign taped to the front reads 2 TICKETS TO RIDE in bubble letters. I peel off what I owe and shove them across the scarred surface.

Milo catches up in two strides. His hand finds the small of my back as we file into the line, and I lock onto the warmth of it. Not the metal skeleton wheeling around above us.

It advances too fast. I want twenty more people crammed in front of me so I can stand here on the ground and pretend I’m exercising patience rather than negotiating with death.

“We really don’t have to do this,” Milo says, tipping his head close to mine. He tucks a stray curl of my hair behind my ear and lets his hand trail warm down the column of my neck. “I’m perfectly content observing. I’ve decided the wheel is a marvel of human engineering and also a colossal mistake, and I’m at peace with both truths.”

“I’m getting on the ride.”

He turns me by the shoulders. “If you change your mind in this line, we walk away. No questions. I’ll act like it was my idea to leave.”

“I’m not changing my mind.”

“Okay.” He hums and threads his fingers through mine.

The line advances. My hand skims along the cold barrier as only one couple remains between us and the loading platform. An empty gondola swings into position beyond them, its painted door knocking against the frame while the operator reaches to steady it. Whatever instructions he calls disappear beneath the mechanical din.

“Last chance,” he murmurs.

“Get in the gondola.”

The attendant opens the gate and waves us in with a boredom that feels criminal given the circumstances. Up close, the carriage is smaller than it looked from the ground, little more than a narrow bench suspended inside a shallow metal shell. Scuff lines appear around the edges of the painted panels. A dark smear of grease stains one hinge. Above the door, a single locking pin sits between me and several stories of open air.

Milo ducks inside first, folding his long legs into the cramped footwell before reaching back for me. His hand closes over mine, the other bracing my waist as I step across the narrow gap between the platform and the carriage. The gondola shifts beneath my weight. My fingers clamp onto his shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he says, drawing me down beside him.

There’s barely room for both of us. His knees take up most of the footwell, one thigh pressed along mine, his shoulder tight against my right side. Usually, I’d appreciate every inch of that arrangement. The contact is the only part of the carriage my body trusts as solid.

The operator slams the door shut. He drops the latch, tests it once, then pulls the safety bar across our laps until it locks with a blunt click. The sound makes one fact horribly final: I’ve surrendered control to a machine built from aging steel and somebody else’s judgment.

Milo’s arm settles around my shoulders. His other hand covers mine where I’ve locked it around the bar. “You’re okay.”

A chain catches with a heavy jolt, jerking the gondola forward. My stomach drops before the carriage rises a full yard.

The festival fractures into isolated sensations beneath us. The chain grinds through the drive wheel with a coarse, tooth-by-tooth drag. Steel shivers through the carriage. Fasteners chatter against their housings, and the pivot above my head releases a thin, abrasive shriek whenever the gondola corrects its balance. Panic turns each ordinary vibration into evidence. That rattle becomes a bolt working loose. The hitch in the mechanism becomes metal beginning to shear. Every groan sounds structural, every tremor deliberate, the entire ride broadcasting its imminent failure in a language only my body seems capable of understanding.

The carriage swings through the first curve, tipping my weight. Milo’s grip closes around my upper arm, firm enough to hold me against his side. I fix my attention on the fastenings opposite us. Four bolts secure the panel to the frame. One quivers more than the others. I watch it until I can’t tell whether the bolt is vibrating or my vision is.

Below us, the platform recedes. The operator’s head disappears behind the railing, and those waiting in line compress into shoulders, hats, and upturned faces. The gap beneath the carriage keeps widening, every new foot of distance registering somewhere deep in my body.

My breathing narrows into careful portions. In through my nose. Hold. Out without letting it shake. The pattern demands all my concentration, but the gondola continues climbing whether I breathe correctly or not.

“Oh,” Milo says, leaning forward. “You can see the whole river from here. I hadn’t realized how far it continued past the bridge. And from up here, the farms divided into perfect rectangles.”

The wheel makes a high-pitched whine.