Page 6 of Carnival’s Playground

"You can't just redo Petey's setup without asking him first." She crosses her arms, and here it comes, the disagreement I felt building since I first glanced at those cords. "He'll take it personal. Man's already sensitive about his wiring after the fog machine thing."

"I don't care if he takes it personally. I care about somebody's tent catching fire because he ran too much load through cheap extension cords." I start walking toward the generator bank, and she falls into step beside me, arguing the whole way.

"You can't just march in and rewire everything without talking to Dutch first. There's a chain of command around here." Her voice climbs, sharp, the kind of sharp that means she's not backing down easy.

"Chain of command doesn't matter much if the chain of command's tent burns down." I crouch by the generator, tracing the wiring with my eyes, already planning how I'd fix it.

"Fine. Talk to Dutch. Get permission, then fix it, but you don't just override Petey's work because you think you know better." She crouches down next to me, closer than strictly necessary, close enough I can feel the heat coming off her arm.

"I do know better. That's not arrogance, that's just true." I glance sideways at her, and there's something in her expression, frustration mixed with something else, something that looks almost like worry.

"Maybe. But there's a way to handle it that doesn't make you look like you're stomping all over everybody's work the second you walk in the door." Her voice softens, just slightly, enough that I notice. "People remember how you handle things, Carnival. First impressions stick around longer than you'd like."

I sit back on my heels, considering that. She's not wrong, even if I hate admitting it. "Alright. I'll talk to Dutch first. Get his blessing before I touch anything. But if he says no, I'm doing it anyway, because I'm not risking a fire over hurt feelings."

"That's fair." She nods, standing, brushing dirt off her knees. "See, was that so hard? Diplomacy?"

"Diplomacy's exhausting." I stand too, stretching muscles that are starting to complain about the day's work. "I'd rather just fix things and let people be annoyed about it after."

"Yeah, well, welcome to working with people instead of machines." She heads back toward the prop trailer, glancing over her shoulder. "You coming, or are you planning to stare at Petey's death trap all evening?"

"Coming." I follow her, and something about the easy way she says it, like it's assumed I'll follow, settles warm in my chest in a way I don't examine too closely.

We finish two more pumpkin frames before the light starts fading, and Avery holds one up, turning it in the dying sunlight, checking the welds.

"Not bad." She sets it among the others, lined up like a strange metal family. "Might actually pull off opening night without total disaster."

Holding back my chuckle, I state, "High praise." I start packing up my tools while my torch cools on the workbench. "You gonna admit I did good work, or is that against some personal code of yours?"

"I already said not bad. That's as far as I'm willing to go tonight." She smirks, wiping her hands on a rag, streaks of grease crossing her palms. "Don't let it go to your head. You've still got Petey's wiring to survive tomorrow, and knowing Dutch, he's gonna make you grovel a little before he gives permission."

"Groveling's not really in my skill set." I sling my tool bag over my shoulder, watching her lock up the prop trailer for the night.

"Then you're in for a rough morning," she teases, cheerful, entirely too cheerful, like the idea of my discomfort brings her genuine joy.

"You're enjoying this. My future discomfort." I fall into step beside her as we head toward the main lot, generators humming low in the background, the whole circus settling into its nighttime quiet.

"Immensely." She grins, and it's a real grin, not the sharp one she's been throwing at me since I ran her over yesterday. "It's the least you owe me after the pumpkin incident."

"The pumpkin incident is officially resolved. I built you four excellent replacements." I gesture back toward the prop trailer like the metal pumpkins might vouch for me.

"Four adequate replacements. We'll see how the other eight turn out before I upgrade to excellent." She stops near the fork in the path where her trailer sits in one direction and mine sits in the other. For a second neither of us says anything, just standing there in the dark with the generators humming and the smell of fried food drifting over from somewhere near the midway.

"Night, Carnival," she murmurs, soft, softer than anything she's said to me all day, and turns to head toward her trailer.

"Night, Avery." I watch her walk away a beat longer than I should, then turn toward my own trailer, thinking about knots and wiring and pumpkins and the particular sound of her laugh when she's trying not to give me the satisfaction of hearing it.

Two days til opening night, and somehow it doesn't feel like nearly enough time anymore, though for entirely different reasons than it did yesterday.

CHAPTER THREE

AVERY

The sun's barely up when I drag myself out of my trailer, coffee in hand, work boots crunching over gravel still wet with morning dew. October mornings in Grimwood Crossing carry a bite that wasn't there a week ago, and I pull my flannel tighter as I head toward the haunt tent, steam curling off my mug into the cold.

The pumpkin display looks good in the early light, four metal frames lined up where Carnival left them last night, waiting for the fabric skins and battery candles that'll finish the job. I run my hand along one of the welds, checking for rough spots, and have to admit, grudgingly, that the man knows his way around a torch.

"Admiring my work already?" His voice comes from behind me, and I don't jump, though it's close.