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A sevenish-year-old girl circled around from the other side of the ride carrying a large canvas bag by her side. Her hair was a whipped up craze, like strawberry cotton candy. She stared through me with glazed donut eyes as she stumbled toward the exit. She looked like she’d survived a candy tornado, and had enjoyed every minute of it.
I met the girl with a warm smile by the gate and stuck out my hand. “Hi, you must be M. I’m Morgan. Your…dad”—my best guess—“set us up through the Delymo app to hang out together for a bit.”
Her gaze drifted over my pink rabbit suit.
She was probably too old to be charmed by a character who looked like she belonged dancing on a trippy children’s television program, and too young to understand the costume’s actual reference.
I smiled harder.
Her own smile fading, she said, “My name’s not M.”
“Of course not,” I told her. “M has to be short for something, right?”
She didn’t answer.
“I’m supposed to meet M—a girl coming off this ride alone,” I said. “That’s you.”
“I’m not alone.”
“I don’t see anyone else with you.”
The girl reached in her bag and pulled out a writhing mass of brown fur. The creature flopped back and forth like a gigantic worm in her fist, then grabbed ahold of her forearm and snapped its head in my direction.
I stumbled a step back, startled. It had rounded ears, long whiskers, and black beads for eyes.
I said, “That’s a weasel.”
“I know,” M laughed. “Isn’t it great?”
Still off kilter, and unsure how to answer, I only blinked at her. “Did you take it on the ride?”
“Yeah. A man asked me to. He said Miso liked the rides. He’s right over…” She looked past me, then side to side.
Miso, huh? Just like SpankKing had said. Was it possible the girl was telling me the truth?
“He’s gone,” I said.
I’d had some strange jobs for Delymo—space mermaid at a kid’s party, toy assembly on-demand at a kid’s party, piñata negotiator (weirdly not a kid’s party)—but never weasel watching. SpankKing had booked a babysitter in a rabbit costume to watch a human child. This girlhadto be Miso.
If Miso wanted to pretend, I could play along. “If the weasel is Miso, then what’s your name?”
The girl looked to the side and squinted, as if thinking for a bit, then paused when she spotted a stand filled with Disney balloons. A smile crept across her face.
“Mickey,” she said. “You can call me Mickey.”
Another M name.
“All right, Mickey,” I said, grinning at her, “how about the two of us—”
“Three,” she said, wiggling the weasel at me.
“Of course.” I gave the weasel a nod of acknowledgment before returning my attention to the girl. “How about thethreeof us M’s explore a bit?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she said, with a side-eye flashed in my direction. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“That is a solid instinct,” I said. “You should never trust strange grownups you’ve never met before. ButMiso’sdad checked my references and gave the green light.”
She flashed me a small smile, more gums than teeth. “You look like a crazy person in that bunny outfit.”
