Page 15 of Carnival’s Playground

"The whole world usually does tell me no." I say it lighter than it feels, an old habit of deflecting anything that sounds too close to real.

"World's wrong then." He states it simple, no teasing in it this time, and it catches me off guard how much weight sits behind those two words.

I don't have a comeback ready, which almost never happens, so I busy myself refolding a stack of scraps that don't need refolding, just to have something to do with my hands.

"We've got two more weeks of this," I finally say, changing subjects before whatever's happening between us gets any bigger than I'm ready for. "Extended run means more wear, more repairs, more headaches like this one."

"More time working together," Carnival adds, watching me with an expression I can't quite decode.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" I ask.

"Depends how annoying you plan on being," he replies, but there's warmth under the words, enough that I feel it settle somewhere low in my chest.

"I plan on being extremely annoying," I inform him. "Consider yourself warned."

"Wouldn't expect anything less," he says, picking up his tool bag, slinging it back over his shoulder, glancing toward the main tent where Dutch is already waving someone down about something urgent. "Speaking of headaches, it looks like Dutch needs me again."

"Go save the day, generator man." I wave him off, though something in me doesn't want him to leave yet.

He starts walking, then pauses, glancing back at me over his shoulder. "Hey, Avery."

"What?" I ask.

"Good idea. The costume thing," he says plainly, no jokes attached to it this time. "Didn't expect anything less from you, but still. Good idea."

"Don't sound so surprised," I call after him, echoing his own words from earlier. I catch the flash of his grin before he turns and jogs off toward Dutch and whatever fresh disaster awaits him.

I watch him go longer than I should, longer than makes sense for a man I spent my first week here wanting to strangle. Something's shifted between us, slow and quiet, the kind of change you don't notice happening until you're already standing in the middle of it.

Millie pokes her head back out of the trailer, arms full of fabric scraps. "You gonna help me finish this, or you gonna stand there staring at Carnival's backside all morning?"

"I wasn't staring," I say, though I absolutely was staring.

"Sure you weren't," she sasses as she grins, disappearing back inside before I can argue further.

I grab an armful of ruined lace and follow her in, but my mind's not fully on costumes anymore. It's two more weeks stretching out ahead of us, on a man who rides motorcycles and fixes generators and somehow makes disaster feel like opportunity, and on a feeling growing steady in my chest that I'm not sure I'm ready to name, but definitely not ready to lose either.

Behind me, faint over the wind, I hear Dutch's voice rising sharp and urgent, followed by Carnival's low reply, and something in the tone of it makes my stomach drop before I even know what's wrong.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CARNIVAL

Dutch’s roar rips across the equipment lot like a cracked whip, and my boots are already digging into the red gravel before my brain even catches up. I’d barely put twenty yards between me and the wardrobe trailers where I left Avery sorting soaked velvet when Dutch comes barreling past the tool crib, cursing up a blue streak. "North generator’s throwing goddamn sparks!" Dutch hollers, chest heaving under his canvas coat. "Petey says the bitch started smoking the second they flipped the breakers for the midway run!"

"How bad's the smoke?" I match his long stride, my heavy leather tool roll slapping hard against my thigh.

"Bad enough that Petey damn near pissed himself hauling ass out of the shed." Dutch kicks open the corrugated tin door, and the reek hits me like a fist to the teeth. I gag on the bitter stench of scorched copper, burnt rubber, and hot melting plastic as it coats the back of my throat with acid.

Petey's backed up against the far wall like the machine's about to grow fangs and tear out his jugular. "I didn't touch shit, Carnival! Swear on my mother’s grave, I just flipped the main toggle like Dutch told me to!"

"Nobody’s blaming you, kid." I drop hard onto one knee in front of the housing, the heat radiating off the metal casing baking the sweat on my forehead. "Kill the main breaker. Now."

Dutch slams the master disconnect down. The screaming electrical whine dies out with a violent snap, leaving behind nothing but the vicious hiss of fried insulation and trapped heat.

"Fuck," I mutter, shoving my flathead into the housing seam and popping the side panel loose.

"Thought you fixed this bastard before dawn?" Dutch hovers right over my shoulder, his breathing ragged.