Joyland

and I did. Kids half his age had given me the Howie-Hug all summer long, but no hug had ever felt so good. I only wished I could turn him around and squeeze him the way I had Hallie Stansfield, expelling what was wrong with him like an aspirated chunk of hotdog.
    Face buried in the fur, he said: “You make a really good Howie, Dev.”
    I rubbed his head with one paw, knocking off his dogtop. I couldn’t reply as Howie—barking his name was as close as I could come to that—but I was thinking, A good kid deserves a good dog. Just ask Milo.
    Mike looked up into Howie’s blue mesh eyes. “Will you come on the hoister with us?”
    I gave him an exaggerated nod and patted his head again. Lane picked up Mike’s new dogtop and stuck it back on his head.
    Annie approached. Her hands were clasped demurely at her waist, but her eyes were full of merriment. “Can I unzip you, Mr. Howie?”
    I wouldn’t have minded, but of course I couldn’t let her. Every show has its rules, and one of Joyland’s—hard and fast—was that Howie the Happy Hound was always Howie the Happy Hound. You never took off the fur where the conies could see.

    I ducked back into Joyland Under, left the fur in the cart, and rejoined Annie and Mike at the ramp leading up to the Carolina Spin. Annie looked up nervously and said, “Are you sure you want to do this, Mike?”
    “Yes! It’s the one I want to do most!”
    “All right, then. I guess.” To me she added: “I’m not terrified of heights, but they don’t exactly thrill me.”
    Lane was holding a car door open. “Climb aboard, folks. I’m going to send you up where the air is rare.” He bent down and scruffed Milo’s ears. “You’re sittin this one out, fella.”
    I sat on the inside, nearest the wheel. Annie sat in the middle, and Mike on the outside, where the view was best. Lane dropped the safety bar, went back to the controls, and reset his derby on a fresh slant. “Amazement awaits!” he called, and up we went, rising with the stately calm of a coronation procession.
    Slowly, the world opened itself beneath us: first the park, then the bright cobalt of the ocean on our right and all of the North Carolina lowlands on our left. When the Spin reached the top of its great circle, Mike let go of the safety bar, raised his hands over his head, and shouted, “We’re flying!”
    A hand on my leg. Annie’s. I looked at her and she mouthed two words: Thank you. I don’t know how many times Lane sent us around—more spins than the usual ride, I think, but I’m not sure. What I remember best was Mike’s face, pale and full of wonder, and Annie’s hand on my thigh, where it seemed to burn. She didn’t take it away until we slowed to a stop.
    Mike turned to me. “Now I know what my kite feels like,” he said.
    So did I.

    When Annie told Mike he’d had enough, the kid didn’t object. He was exhausted. As Lane helped him into his wheelchair, Mike held out a hand, palm up. “Slap me five if you’re still alive.”
    Grinning, Lane slapped him five. “Come back anytime, Mike.”
    “Thanks. It was so great.”
    Lane and I pushed him up the midway. The booths on both sides were shut up again, but one of the shys was open: Annie Oakleys Shootin’ Gallery. Standing at the chump board, where Pop Allen had stood all summer long, was Fred Dean in his three-piece suit. Behind him, chain-driven rabbits and ducks traveled in opposite directions. Above them were bright yellow ceramic chicks. These were stationary, but very small.
    “Like to try your shooting skill before you exit the park?” Fred asked. “There are no losers today. Today ev -rybody wins a prize.”
    Mike looked around at Annie. “Can I, mom?”
    “Sure, honey. But not long, okay?”
    He tried to get out of the chair, but couldn’t. He was too tired. Lane and I propped him up, one on each side. Mike picked up a rifle and took a couple of shots, but he could no longer steady his arms, even though the gun was light. The beebees struck the canvas backdrop and clicked into the gutter at the bottom.
    “Guess I suck,” he said, putting the rifle down.
    “Well, you didn’t exactly burn it up,” Fred allowed, “but as I said, today everyone wins a prize.” With that, he handed over the biggest Howie on the shelf, a top stuffy that even sharpshooters couldn’t earn without spending eight or nine bucks on reloads.
    Mike thanked him and sat back down, looking overwhelmed. That damn stuffed dog was almost as big