He had jogged five miles away from his origin of departure into the town square to find his grounding at a base of operations in his local library. A quiet, isolated place where he could take the time to think things through, research the cheapest motels, find any housing in his vicinity, and get snacks from the vending machines. Crossing the street, he sped up his pace towards the main entrance of the public library. Zeroing in on the door, he yanked at the handle, and the door remained closed. He stepped away in a dazed panic and tried again. This time, pushing and pulling the door until he heard it whine, but it still stayed shut. 

"What the hell," he slapped the metal door handle in a huff, his ear beating with each pulse. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled and checked his phone for the time: Five o'clock on the dot.  

He was sure that the building closed at six. Why wasn't it open? 

He scanned the posted flyers that offered safe space for vets, another showing tutoring hours, and a primary-colored flier advertising the circus with fair rides coming into town. On closer inspection, the regular business hours of the building were 6 am to 6 pm. He looked back at the circus flier; there was more to it. The temporary library hours were shown in yellow block letters, showing it closed at four due to the circus coming to town.

He let his head slump on the door, fogging up the glass. He ran through a few options on where else he could go now that his current opportunities were snatched away by the circus in town. He sighed. If he recalled correctly, the cheapest motel was about five miles from where he was now. He could sleep away from his frustrations, recouping when the library finally opened. That would be the sensible option.   

He glanced back at the colorful flier. The circus was located a mile away from him en route to the motel. 

"I guess I'm joining the circus," he drawled, punching the frame in a half-hearted attempt at toughness, leaving his hand bruised. Walking away, he rummaged through his pockets and pulled out his wallet. Counting his funds, he resolved not to waste a dime of what he had, and his stomach grumbled in protest. He sighed again, knowing he would fail in his resolve. 

By the time he finished jogging his way to the circus, his stomach had stopped grumbling and replaced it with an achy gnawing that would probably escalate to a headache if he didn't grab something to eat. 

Filing through the circus entrance, he caught sight of a few kiddy rides, merry-go-rounds, and pins for petting animals. 

One in particular that stood out was the monkeys in cages. A hoard of kids flung their popcorn through the chain-link fence. Inside the cell, the huddling creature's turned their furry backs at the jeering crowd. One child, a small boy no more than five years old, managed to slip over the fence. He approached the cage and wrapped it at the bars with his corndog. That racket grabbed the primates' attention. The child's face split into a toothy grin as his tiny fingers reached through the square links, dropping the corndog. A puny primate smiled back with a grin of his own; only this one came with a set of sharpened pearly whites. 

"Momma, look, look! He likes me!" 

"Oh, he does," his mother cooed. "Carl, take a picture." 

A man, also on the wrong side of the fence and presumably named Carl, raised his phone to get a better angle of the child and monkey. 

An employee wearing a neon yellow vest with the words staff in silver blocked letters hustled over to break up the photo shoot. 

"Ma'am! Ma'am, please back away. You're far too close, and sir! Sir, get back on the other side of the fence." 

"Alright, alright," Carl waved a dismissive hand in the employee's direction. "Lemme grab a photo of my kid first," he said, focusing on the task. 

The employee gawked and blinked as he took in the request. "Your what?" as he said this, he turned to the monkey's cage. Right on time to witness the monkey lunge at the boy's head, yanking fistfuls of blonde hair. 

The young man backed out of the crowd, ignoring the cries of dismay from the public and the alarming wails coming from the other side of the fence.  

The hustle and bustle of people walking through, by, and around him was white noise. What did have his utmost attention was another of his senses. He breathed in the buttery yet nutty scent of popcorn, deep-fried batter-covered food, and other hearty delicacies. 

He followed his nose. The aroma led him to a corn stand. Run by an older man and a boy, both dressed in costumes. The older gentleman wore a white peasant shirt and brown khaki pants with a red handkerchief tied around his neck. He wore distinctive facial hair; that was thin but pigmented enough to stand out on his tan skin as if drawn by hand. A boy may be no more than ten years old. Sat beside him, reading a comic book issue called Gruntwork. The boy wore a red bodysuit with two fuzzy feelers bobbing attached to his yellow headband and a backward letter yellow c taped on the front of his long-sleeved shirt.  

He handed the cook five dollars in exchange for a cup of corn drenched in mayo, white shredded cheese, lime juice, and healthy doses of red hot chamoy paste. The cook sprinkled some salt, generously drowned the corn in lime and red-hot sauce, and threw a bag of homemade potato chips. And a cold ginger soda for free. 

He sat down on a wooden bench a few yards away. He devoured his savory snacks, not caring that his stomach would make him pay for the spicey price later. He made his way around and saw the tents, flashing blue-green lights from the rides taking his attention, fishing games, and off tucked in between two posts sat an elderly lady. Her skin was a vibrant red, making him do a double take. 

Stop staring. It's Halloween; she's wearing body paint and a mask. It's not her natural skin. 

 He chastised himself, forcing his attention away from the red lady. He would be no better than those spoiled brats messing with the monkey in cages. Maybe worse. Above her table, a posted flier read fortune teller. On her right, a tiny girl danced, tip-toeing around with color-shifting fairy wings on her back. The duo exchanged a few words with the elderly lady handing her off something, and she sped away. The fairy girl skipped towards the corn stand, leaving a trail of silver glitter in her wake.  

Still feeling peckish, he returned to ask for another cup of corn. As he looked over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse at the fortune teller's table, and the old cook took notice.

The older man nudged the young lad, "Mijo. Pregúntele al joven si le interesa que le lean las cartas con la Doña Canela.” 

"Ah, okay," the little boy placed a napkin in his book and said, "My dad says if you're interested in getting your fortune read with Mrs. Canela? She's the red dragon lady."

He blinked at them and peered back at the red lady sitting alone at her table. The little girl skipped back to stand beside her. "Her?" 

The elder man nodded "si ella no la muchacha." He turned to look to his son. “Dile que no son mala gente,” he said, draining in the corn in the cup. “Es más ella no te va decir cosas falsas ni por bien o para mal. Eso sí, no es una bruja humana.” As the elderly man mixed in mayo and sour cream, he pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in contemplation, "se me hace que la señora es parte de una raza de cocuy y la chiquita es como una ada mal crienta. Ella la trata como su hija pero no son relacionados. Tenga cuidado con ella.." He shrugged, “pero no estoy tan seguro, no mas se que ella no es humana. Pero no creo que te vaya a dar problemas mientras no te portas mal con ella. Eso sí tan poco te va dar un reembolso si le caías mal.” The father nudged his son lightly at the elbow. 

The boy nodded curtly, surmising, "They're nice. They won't scam, but she won't lie to make your life easy or worse. Oh, and she doesn't give refunds." With his task completed, he settled back in his seat.

The father blinked at that quick summarization, pursing his lips into a flatline. He turned to give his son a sidelong squint. 

The son paid no mind to his father's scrutiny, preferring to attend to his worn comic book.

The young man nodded and marveled at the son's concise translation, managing to unravel the linguistics of the father's words so effortlessly.   

The father did not see it that way. "Mijo," the father said, clearing out some gruffness as he spoke.

The lad raised an eyebrow, "Si pa?" 

“Si le dijiste todo al muchacho, ¿o no más lo chispostate?” 

He scrunched up his face at his father's words and pouted. “No Pa, yo sí le dije lo que tu me dijiste.”

"Todito?" 

He sat up straight, dropped the lackadaisical vibe, and grew solemn. With a furrowed brow, he nodded once and said, "si, Papa. Todo." 

“Mas te vale, si no, se va meter en un lío el guirito. Mire lo, con esa cara tierna. Ca pas' que la bruja le hechice para que se caiga rendido a sus pies y lo obliga a casarse con ella,” the man grimaced. 

“¿Le digo eso tan bien pa?” 

"No mijo." The older man snapped and snatched the comic book from his son's grasp. "Y ya dale su elote." 

"Ay, okay, okay," He turned to the young dark-haired man, who had heard the whole exchange but did not understand a word, "here's your corn." 

"Thanks," he nodded at the young lad, turned to the father, and with a sheepish grin said, "gracias."

"Ah, Spanglish, muy bien ay lo llevas," the father chuckled.

"He said your Spanglish is pretty good. You're doing well," the son said, returning the smile. 

As the young man was walking away, the son took back his comic and settled back on his side of the food stand.  

The father turned to his son in earnest. “Pues perdóname mijo pero no te creo,” he said, rearranging the condiments back in order. 

"Esta bien, pa," the son answered, flipping a page, "yo si te perdono." 

His father grunted, “Deja de hacer te el listo, que yo estoy bien seguro que no le dijiste todo. No pones atención y nomas andas aqui leyendo esas historias de fantasmas.”  

"Son superheroes pa." 

“Como El chapulín colorado?" 

"Exacto Pa, exacto. Y si le dije todo," the son said in his most confident tone, invoked by most adolescents his age, sure of their capability to accomplish any feat despite the lack of expertise or life experience needed to express it.

His father turned away, relaxing his shoulders, and smiled, "Muy bien mijo-" 

“Todo excepto la parte de la bruja siendo raza de demoníaca.” 

The father gaped at his son, staring at him. He furrowed his brows warring between agitation and surprise and settled on shaking his head. He sighed, "Ay caray tonces si lo chipostate." 

"No," his son frowned at that. 

The father gave him a flat look, “Si le excluiste lo más importante mijo. La demonia.” 

"O." The son's nonchalant demeanor flummoxed. He looked into the crowd at the retrieving back of his previous patron, and he was too far from them, weaving closer to the fortune teller's line of sight. “¿Lo llamó para tras?” 

A new customer arrived at the corn stand, money out and ready. 

The father sighed, saying to his son, "no, ya pa que, ya se fue a pedir que le echen las cartas." He shrugged, adding in a remorseful tone. “A ver si no lo convierte en un lagarto.”