Page 9 of Carnival’s Playground

"Looks solid," Avery remarks, but poses it like a question, as if she wants confirmation even though I know she trusts her own eyes just fine.

"Looks solid," I parrot, because it does, and because agreeing with her feels easier than it used to.

Dutch's voice booms across the tent, calling for a final walk through before doors open, and we split off toward our separate jobs, me heading for the generator bank behind the tent, her toward the haunt walk to run the last checks on the props.

The generators hum steady when I get there, gauges reading normal, fuel topped off from this morning. Petey's supposed to be watching them, but he's nowhere in sight, probably off flirting with one of the concession girls instead of doing his job.

"Of course he's not here," I mutter to nobody, checking the connections myself, tracing each cable back to its source.

Everything checks out and runs smoothly under my hands, but a sudden stutter in the main generator's growl brings me up sharp. The string lights through the big top flicker once, twice, then catch and hold steady.

"Come on." I crouch by the unit, listening closely, feeling for vibration that shouldn't be there. "Don't do this to me tonight."

The wind picks up outside, sharp and sudden, rattling the tent's canvas walls, and somewhere above me I hear the first crack of thunder, distant but unmistakable.

"Wonderful." I stand, wiping my hands on my jeans, already moving back toward the big top because a generator hiccup and a storm rolling in at the same time is exactly the kind of luck I've come to expect from this town.

Inside, the acrobats are mid rehearsal, one of them dangling from the trapeze rig I checked not fifteen minutes ago. Everything looks fine then the lights flicker again, longer this time, the whole tent dropping into near darkness for one gut clenching second before the backup power kicks in.

"Carnival!" Avery's voice cuts through the tent, sharp with urgency, and I find her already moving toward me, fear plain on her face for the first time since I've known her. "The fog machine just shorted. There's smoke coming from behind the tombstone prop."

"Show me." I don't wait for her to lead, already moving, and she falls into step beside me, both of us cutting through the haunt walk faster than anyone should move in a space this crowded with props.

The fog machine sits behind its fake tombstone, thin gray smoke curling up from its housing, definitely not the harmless fog it's supposed to produce.

"Kill the power to this unit," I instruct, already reaching for the cord, yanking it from the outlet before she can answer. The smoke thins immediately, though the smell of burnt wiring lingers thick in the air.

"That's not good." Avery crouches beside me, sighing as she examines the housing. I can see her hands trembling slightly, adrenaline finally catching up to her.

"Understatement of the year," I reply, prying the housing open, careful of any remaining heat, and finding exactly what I expected. Frayed wiring, insulation melted through, probably from being run too hard during rehearsals without a break. "This thing's been overworked. Somebody's been running it nonstop."

"That'd be me." Avery's voice comes out smaller than I've ever heard it, guilt written plain across her face.

"Hey." I look up at her, and something in my chest tightens at the sight of her blaming herself, at the way her usual sharpness has gone soft with worry. "This isn't on you. The machine's old, wiring's old, and combined with October humidity, something was bound to go eventually."

"Doesn't change the fact that we've got a smoking fog machine and doors open in under an hour," she states, standing and pacing a tight circle, and thunder cracks again outside, closer this time.

"So we fix it," I announce, standing too, already thinking through options, cataloging what spare parts I might have stashed in my saddlebags.

"Ten minutes and we're back in business?" She raises an eyebrow, skeptical, though there's hope underneath it now.

"Ten minutes and we're back in business, assuming the storm holds off," I reassure her, already moving, jogging toward the equipment yard where my bike sits parked, rain starting to spit from a sky that's gone the color of a bruise.

By the time I make it back, toolbox and spare wiring in hand, Avery's already got the housing fully disassembled, laid out neat on a scrap of tarp like she's done this a hundred times before.

"Didn't peg you for an electrician," I admit, kneeling beside her, impressed despite myself, taking in her efficient work.

"Didn't peg you for someone who'd trust me with a screwdriver," she replies, handing me the wire strippers without being asked, and something about the easy coordination between us, no words needed, hits different than it should.

We work fast, stripping wire, twisting connections, testing each joint before moving to the next, thunder rolling steadily outside now, the first fat drops of rain starting to patter against the canvas above us.

"You think this will hold?" Avery quietly asks, watching my hands work the final connection.

"It’ll hold," I assure her, with more confidence than I feel, because doubt doesn't fix machines and it definitely doesn't fix nerves five minutes before doors open.

We reassemble the housing, plug it back in, and both of us hold our breath as the machine hums to life, thin white fog rolling out steadily and even, no smoke, no sparks, just Halloween atmosphere exactly the way it's supposed to look.

"Yes," Avery announces as she lets out a breath she's clearly been holding, and before I can stop myself, I'm grinning wide enough to match her relief.