Between line and reading, we wasted forty-five minutes on the fortune-teller. Maybe Brent’s ruse encouraged me, I don’t know, but I felt a bit… daring.

Though receiving their fortunes first, Dean and Marissa had dashed off somewhere. Brent was on the phone, in the process of corralling them.

My opportunity had arrived. “While we wait,” I said, “I’m going to play a game.”

“Really?” Brase asked. “In the mood to lose money?”

“To win prizes, you mean!” I said, grinning. “Besides, I’m about to come into money, remember, so the meager admission to these cheap fripperies is but a pittance.” I was impersonating a snooty and self-important gentleman of high society, but mostly I just sounded like a Welshman with a nosebleed.

“Hey, I’m in!” Cal said excitedly. “Let’s see what you’re made of, PROV.”

Ah, almost forgot.

There was one noteworthy development during my time with Ergo. After I sat down, he began the interview, “Your name, please.”

Before I could respond, Brooke blurted, “Providence.”

Ergo and I glanced up at her. She added, “’Prov’ for short.”

So now I’m, ‘Providence; Prov for short.’ Brent accepted the change with a frown. I think he was disappointed he didn’t think of it, himself. Apparently I am still “The Judge,” as well, though.

“People can have two names,” he insists, “in case one gets stolen.”

Well, PROV had a very important date with a stack of milk bottles just then. But you knew that was coming, right?

I led us back to the booth, not saying another word. I slapped my money on the counter, and received my vessels of triumph.

Now, I’m a mediocre athlete at the best of times, and baseball was definitely not my sport, but I can throw a ball. If I can throw a ball, I can throw a beanbag, I figured. Knowing the game is rigged, I could proceed with appropriate expectations. It would take a few throws, I knew, to get the hang of things, but I would succeed eventually. The base bottles could be filled with cement, but EVENTUALLY I’d overcome them.

I didn’t.

In frustration, I paid Cal off. “Please,” I said, handing him the bags, “save me from myself.”

After two attempts on my dime, he held up his hands and backed away. “I’m sorry, man,” he told me, “but there’s nothing I can do against witchcraft.”

I should have stopped. I know that. The small crowd watching my descent into madness knew it as well. But I was too far in. Testosterone-fueled stubbornness had taken hold.

I’m going to beat this, pride insisted. This is not impossible.

I don’t want to disclose how much I ended up spending, because just seeing the number, leering up at me from the screen, will make me sick. By the time I FINALLY pulled myself away, I hadn’t won so much as a tootsie roll.

Of course, as futility became increasingly apparently, the others asked, “What is so important about this game? Come on, let’s do something else. Just forget about it. You really want a stuffed animal, we can go buy one.”

I responded to each with the same nonsense justification.“I want to play this game,” I said. “I want to win one of those prizes.”

Dean, who joined us midway through my decline, looked at the assortment of stuffed animals and asked the completely reasonable, “What are you going to DO with it, stuff it into your pack?”

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“No,” I said. My frustration tried to redirect toward him, but I reeled it back. Instead, I said, “I’m going to send it home to my little sister. She will love it; it will make her think of me. She can squeeze it if she starts to miss me while I’m gone.”

That changed impressions of me. Sympathetic ooh’s, ah’s and variations on the theme replaced concerns for my mental stability. “That’s so sweet.” “You’re a great a brother!” Etc.

I’m a horrible bastard is what I am. I don’t have a little sister. I don’t have ANY sister.

I was trying to win that stupid blue porcupine for the girl beside me. The girl who never technically even said she wanted it. And why would she? She is an adult -- a bright, mature young woman. Why on Earth would she care about a poorly-made carnival prize meant to entice children? Hell, I might not have even chosen the right one! Maybe she had been looking at something else.

“Here, I won you that porcupine you liked.”

“Porcupine? I hate porcupines; I was looking at the duck!”

Genius; I am an absolute genius.

It was a costly episode of idiocy, but I don’t THINK Brooke realized what was happening, not exactly. To her, and everyone else, I looked like the weirdo who REALLY wanted to win a stuffed animal for his non-existent sister. Sweet, maybe, but so very, very weird. I can live with that.

By the time I finally shirked the escape velocity of my own stupidity, leaving a very satisfied carny in my wake, it was getting late. Between the rides, the food, perusing the midway, the fortune teller, and now this, we’d been at the fair quite a while. Yet, Brent insisted there was one last ride we should all go on. A kind of send-off for the night.

“If you want to send me off to the emergency room,” Cal said, holding his stomach protectively. I, too, pointed at his stomach in defiance.

Brent chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he said, “this one isn’t going to ruffle any feathers. ‘Ride’ is something of a misnomer.” He looked at me and I swear he winked. “You’re going to love it, trust me.”

A few members of the group splintered off, declining Brent’s invitation, but all “my people”, if you like, remained. We followed our de facto leader toward his mystery finale.

It was at the edge of things, sequestered from the other rides. That’s why I didn’t noticed it before. But when I saw the facade, a mock-up of a creepy old mansion, I understood.

As the structure loomed before us, Brent said, “Creepy fun house. Great, right?” Again, he was looking at me when he said it.

“Let’s do it,” I agreed.

We reached the gate keeper as an unorganized blob, but upon hearing her declaration, “Pairs -- please,” we hurried into a more orderly line. When the smoke cleared, I saw that I was standing next to Brooke.

Had I sought her; had she, me? A combination? Coincidence? I’m still not entirely sure, but after the embarrassment at the bottle toss, I was happy that this, at least, had fallen my way.

She smiled at me as the pair in front of us, Dean and Marissa, disappeared into the mansion’s web-dappled entrance. An artificial thunderclap roared from hidden speakers. “Sure you can handle this?” she asked.

“I survived Ergo and Bulworth Dillinger; I can survive this.”

She giggled, facing the attraction again. I like that sound.

Soon, the gate keeper waved us forward and we joined her on the small stoop leading to the attraction’s entrance. As she mechanically recited the rules, I noticed a bronze placard affixed to one of the building’s faux pillars. “This ride has been donated by such and such Entertainment. We hope you enjoy it and come visit us next haunted season for our inaugural event!”

Next haunted season? So… in a YEAR? Really rolling out the marketing nice and early, I guess.

“Go,” the employee said, emotionless. We went.

I will admit, it was definitely a cut above your standard, cheesy spook house. No plastic bats dropping from the ceiling, no shaggy spider animatronics hopping around on failing metal struts. Honestly, there were some genuinely interesting – dare I say “creepy” – aspects to the place. Whomever built the thing knew what they were doing. Scare houses aren’t really my thing, but an enthusiast would have found a lot to like during its brief duration.

As a matter of fact, so did I.

While the place didn’t frighten me, the same can’t be said of my fellow passenger. Every startle, though, was immediately followed by a self-aware laugh. When it was over, I had to call her out on it. Her response was, “No, of course not! I wasn’t afraid at all.”

Pause.

“...But actually, a few times, MAYBE.” Laugh. “Ok, I was scared.”

I didn’t razz her about it; didn’t her any grief beyond that. If anything, in my mind, I was already preparing the letter of appreciation I would be writing to the attraction’s designers. Where could I even could pick up a fruit basket at that hour? I owed them. Big.

Brooke held my hand. From the moment the first mechanical miscreant snarled its menace from the shadows until we escaped through the exit, we were palm-in-palm.

Milk bottles? What milk bottles? I didn’t have a care in the world. My only wish was that all of it, the monsters, mirrors, and mazes, would never end. If I HAD been holding onto any expectations, or even hopes, about how the evening may turn out, our brief sojourn in the spook house exceeded every one.

What can I say? The girl is pretty damn special.