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stars around her head, her lips thick
     and her forehead large. As they approached a man in shirtsleeves came out and squinted at them.
    “What you want? Game’s over,” he said sourly.
    “We come to see the gypsy girl.”
    “The what? She ain’t no gypsy. She’s from Akron. Get out of here, it’s late as hell.”
    “We brought money.”
    “Lots of people bring money lots of places. It’s a popular thing to bring. Get lost.”
    “We come all the way from Missouri to see her.”
    “Really?” he said, thinking. “Well. We’re getting popular. Huh. That’s good news. You know what, sure, you can see her. Let
     me see the money.” They pulled it out and he inspected the coins in their hands. “Fair enough. Hey, Sibyl!” he shouted into
     the cart. He pounded on the side. “We ain’t done yet! Just few more!”
    Nothing came. Then there was a voice but it could have been just the breeze and Connelly did not hear a word in it. But the
     carnie said in answer, “We got paying customers here. Come on, get your stuff together.”
    “It’s late,” whined a girl’s voice. “I don’t want to see them.”
    “People don’t want a lot of stuff. It happens.” He turned to the men and winked. “Takes a while, magicking and seering the
     heavens. Takes some work.” He took out a flask and took a belt from it, then shouted, “Come on, you’re holding up the show!”
    “I don’t want to see him.”
    “See who?”
    She didn’t say anything.
    “See who?”
    “The big one,” said the girl’s voice, and it was quiet and shook with fear.
    All of them looked at Connelly. He raised his hands and shrugged.
    “Goddamn it, girl,” said the carnie, and went into the cart. He was there for some time and when he came out he marched up
     to Connelly. “Let me see your money,” he said.
    “Why? You seen it.”
    “Let me see it again, then.”
    Connelly showed him. The carnie frowned, then returned to the cart and was there for a few minutes more. When he came back
     out he said, “Okay. We’re good to go, folks. But you’re last,” he said, nodding at Connelly.
    “Why?”
    “You got a lot of damn questions. Why don’t you ask the damn fortune-teller, huh?”
    Connelly shrugged and sat down in the grass with the rest of them. They watched as the old men passed through the beaded curtain.
     It was too dark to see very far in and both were swallowed by the shadows.
    Connelly listened to the drunken singing and atonal music from the carnival across the way. He turned to watch the stragglers
     go back and forth in the distant fairy lights, moonbeam-white and rose-pink. People staggered out and where they walked grasshoppers
     sprang from the turf under their feet and twirled away into the sky, faintly luminescent in the weak light.
    “What do you think she’s showing them in there?” asked Hammond.
    “Not her titties,” said the carnie. “Not for what they paid.”
    “Lechery sprawls across the face of creation,” said Pike. “As it always does. One wonders what clay God made men from. Something
     weak and watery, I’d say.”
    “You a religious man?”
    “I am.”
    “Funny thing, religious fella at a fortune-teller.”
    “When I was a boy there was a scrying woman on our street who could look in a teacup and see when the rains would come. She
     was never wrong. It’s a foolish man who doesn’t think God works in strange places.”
    “Or she could have just looked at the sky,” said Hammond quietly, but Pike did not hear.
    The two old men came out looking pleased and one said, “You boys are in for a treat!” They made their way into the night.
    “I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Hammond. “You believe in fortune-tellers?” he asked Connelly as Roosevelt handed the
     man his money and went in.
    “Don’t know,” said Connelly.
    “Well, do you think it’s likely?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean, likely some girl knows what’s going to happen to you?”
    He thought about