As he settled in his workroom, Zozo was troubled. This room was perhaps his only comfort. This was the room where Zozo tried to change his past and seek his revenge. It was in this room where he made the first of his Creeps, taking frayed bits of leftover toys from the old carnival—the toys who had never known the company of a child. They had never sat in the grass under a tree and been a hero in a pretend adventure. They had never been clutched tightly while racing down a slide. They had never been hugged under the covers during a terrible thunderstorm. They had never been the gentle buffer against sadness, or felt the joys of being tossed and hugged and played with. They had never been the one thing that made everything all right for a kid.
So, these sagging, never-loved toys were perfect for Zozo’s needs. They’d only ever been with Zozo, and so they had nothing other than his darkened ways to learn from. But Zozo took advantage of this by making them do things he could not. Zozo had become rusted and slow. And truth be told, he feared the outside world. He could not control what happened there. But in this place, this room of dark deeds, he ruled absolutely, and the Creeps did anything he ordered. Rough and quick and mean were the Creeps. They could sneak about with such stealth and ease that even birds, squirrels, and dogs seldom heard them coming. Favorite toys didn’t have a chance once the Creeps set their sights on them.
They were, as a whole, a sneaky but jolly lot. They enjoyed being Creeps. They liked being bad and stealing toys. But when Zozo was quiet and still, as he was this evening, they grew even quieter and more still. Zozo was fearsome when he had “the quiets,” as they called these moods. It meant that Zozo was “remembering,” and that was a thing that never ended well.
Zozo sat at his large worktable, which was littered with well-organized bits and pieces of old toys: arms, legs, heads, bodies, ears, tails, fabric, thread, and metal shards, as well as rusty springs, staples, and screws and nuts with bolts—things similar to what he’d used to make Creeps. But in the middle of the table, on a white piece of nice, clean fabric, there lay a toy who was obviously special, for it was constructed with extreme care and exacting craft. It was a dancer, and it was obviously meant to be Nina. But despite all the detailed care, it somehow was not Nina. The fabric and colors and face were very close, having been pieced together from snippets of favorites that matched as closely as Zozo could manage to the Nina he remembered. But very close can still be a long, long way from what you want, or need, or hope for.
As Zozo now sat in his old rotting throne, its gold paint nearly peeled away, staring silently at this lifeless doll of his memories and his making, he said nothing. The Creeps were worried. And they were wise for being worried. For Zozo was remembering a sound, a sound he’d heard long, long ago. A jingling.