Joyland

as he was. “You try, Mom.”
    “No, that’s okay,” she said, but I thought she wanted to. It was something in her eyes as she measured the distance between the chump board and the targets.
    “Please?” He looked first at me, then at Lane. “She’s really good. She won the prone shooting tournament at Camp Perry before I was born and came in second twice. Camp Perry’s in Ohio.”
    “I don’t—”
    Lane was already holding out one of the modified .22s. “Step right up. Let’s see your best Annie Oakley, Annie.”
    She took the rifle and examined it in a way few of the conies ever did. “How many shots?”
    “Ten a clip,” Fred said.
    “If I’m going to do this, can I shoot two clips?”
    “As many as you want, ma’am. Today’s your day.”
    “Mom used to also shoot skeet with my grampa,” Mike told them.
    Annie raised the .22 and squeezed off ten shots with a pause of perhaps two seconds between each. She knocked over two moving ducks and three of the moving bunnies. The teensy ceramic chicks she ignored completely.
    “A crack shot!” Fred crowed. “Any prize on the middle shelf, your pick!”
    She smiled. “Fifty percent isn’t anywhere near crack. My dad would have covered his face for shame. I’ll just take the reload, if that’s okay.”
    Fred took a paper cone from under the counter—a wee shoot, in the Talk—and put the small end into a hole on top of the gag rifle. There was a rattle as another ten beebees rolled in.
    “Are the sights on these trigged?” she asked Fred.
    “No, ma’am. All the games at Joyland are straight. But if I told you Pop Allen—the man who usually runs this shy—spent long hours sighting them in, I’d be a liar.”
    Having worked on Pop’s team, I knew that was disingenuous, to say the least. Sighting in the rifles was the last thing Pop would do. The better the rubes shot, the more prizes Pop had to give away . . . and he had to buy his own prizes. All the shy-bosses did. They were cheap goods, but not free goods.
    “Shoots left and high,” she said, more to herself than to us. Then she raised the rifle, socked it into the hollow of her right shoulder, and triggered off ten rounds. This time there was no discernable pause between shots, and she didn’t bother with the ducks and bunnies. She aimed for the ceramic chicks and exploded eight of them.
    As she put the gun back on the counter, Lane used his bandanna to wipe a smutch of sweat and grime from the back of his neck. He spoke very softly as he did this chore. “Jesus Horatio Christ. Nobody gets eight peeps.”
    “I only nicked the last one, and at this range I should have had them all.” She wasn’t boasting, just stating a fact.
    Mike said, almost apologetically: “Told you she was good.” He curled a fist over his mouth and coughed into it. “She was thinking about the Olympics, only then she dropped out of college.”
    “You really are Annie Oakley,” Lane said, stuffing his bandanna back into a rear pocket. “Any prize, pretty lady. You pick.”
    “I already have my prize,” she said. “This has been a wonderful, wonderful day. I can never thank you guys enough.” She turned in my direction. “And this guy. Who actually had to talk me into it. Because I’m a fool.” She kissed the top of Mike’s head. “But now I better get my boy home. Where’s Milo?”
    We looked around and saw him halfway down Joyland Avenue, sitting in front of Horror House with his tail curled around his paws.
    “Milo, come!” Annie called.
    His ears pricked up but he didn’t come. He didn’t even turn in her direction, just stared at the façade of Joyland’s only dark ride. I could almost believe he was reading the drippy, cobweb-festooned invitation: COME IN IF YOU DARE.
    While Annie was looking at Milo, I stole a glance at Mike. Although he was all but done in from the excitements of the day, his expression was hard to mistake. It was satisfaction. I know it’s crazy to think he and his Jack Russell had worked this out in advance, but I did think it.
    I still do.
    “Roll me down there, Mom,” Mike said. “He’ll come with me.”
    “No need for that,” Lane said. “If you’ve got a leash, I’m happy to go get him.”
    “It’s in the pocket on the back of Mike’s wheelchair,” Annie said.
    “Um, probably not,” Mike said. “You can check but I’m pretty sure I forgot it.”
    Annie checked while I thought, In a pig’s ass you forgot.
    “Oh, Mike,” Annie said