I smell the fair before I see it. That says a lot about the way the aroma of kettle corn clings to the air. The Ferris wheel reaches deep into the sky and still I notice the sweet smell of caramelized sugar and maple before I see anything resembling a carnival ride.

Tacoma may feel unfamiliar to me, but I am right at home at the state fair. Of course, it’s bigger than the one thrown by Whitman County, but that’s just acreage. Fairs all feature the same components, after all—versions of the same rides, games hawked by the same grizzled barkers, the same food fried in vats of sizzling oil.

I arrive early enough that it’s mostly moms and their preschoolers toddling through the entrance gates. I tuck Sonny’s truck away in a corner, in the shadow of a row of tall pines. The woman at the ticket booth asks to check my bag. My mouth dries up and my throat closes, but she just blindly riffles through its contents. I’m a tiny girl wearing sunglasses and a Seahawks cap. I’m no threat to anyone.

Right now, the greatest danger to my plan is my dwindling cash reserve. I remind myself to be careful with expenses. It’s easy to eat your way through a fair. Each booth tempts with a different treat; but you’re paying for the experience, the once-a-year delicacy. My belly grumbles hopefully every time I pass another stall. I don’t need to eat yet. I fill up by taking it all in.

More people are present in the approximately five square miles of the Washington State Fair than I may have seen in the past five years living at Sonny’s ranch. The air feels thick with the presence of these strangers, the breath they exhale, the space they take up. My nervous system hums, primed to react. My skin tingles. My eyes ache from keeping my lids open. I don’t want to miss anything.

I slip my sunglasses into my backpack. No one will recognize me here. I walk the entire perimeter and try to note each exit. As the day passes, I try to keep track of the ways the pedestrian traffic follows a pattern. The lines stretch longest at the booths closest to the front entrance. Most of the women pushing baby strollers exit through the crosswalk closest to the school parking lot. Groups of people congregate near the restrooms by the food halls. The porta potties on the edge of the petting zoo seem relatively empty, but the handwashing station is a sudsy mess.

The corner of the fairgrounds where I feel most comfortable should be the livestock display and rodeo. But it’s hard to tour those tents without thinking of Sonny.

“You seem like you’re fixing to measure those sheep. You looking to purchase?” The voice ambles over from an old-timer leaning against the side of an RV parked to the left of the pig and hog tent. I go still. I don’t want conversation. I don’t want to be noticed.

“No, sir. They just remind me of home.” We used to keep a lot of animals. Back in another life, when the ranch seemed like a place for my parents to build a life together. Helen even raised alpacas for 4H. I’d help her haul out the buckets of feed. I remember how their eyes would follow us, from the minute we stepped out the back door until we’d stuff the windrows with fresh hay.

“Well, you seem to have a good eye for a healthy animal. Your family have some land?”

“A little bit.” That’s what Sonny would say, chatting with folks at the Agway in town. He’d never name how much or talk about the land up in Packwood. A little bit, just like the way he’d answer the waitress at the Sunset when she asked if he’d like gravy on his mashed potatoes.

The old man tips his hat to me. It’s a large felt cattleman, worn at the brim. Sonny hangs his hats on a row of hooks on his bedroom door. “I like to see a young person appreciate the animals,” he tells me. “Not just stand there with her phone out, taking those selfies with the camera.”

“Oh no, that’s not my thing.” I laugh as if that’s the most absurd thing ever. Farm girl like me. We stand there in companionable silence and watch the fair swirl around us.

“No school today? You seem like a bright girl. I don’t figure you for skipping school.”

“I’m here with my classmates actually. We’re taking measurements of the roller coasters for physics class.”

“Are you really now? They sure do school differently nowadays.”

I smile my friendliest smile. At Sonny’s ranch, I did school all year round. The desk pushed into the corner, stacks of books, a list of approved websites, and carefully monitored homeschool chats. The only classes I took in person were jiu jitsu and archery.

But the kind old man doesn’t need to know all that. He’s just making conversation. He doesn’t really care that I’ve only watched science labs on YouTube. I haven’t tackled a group project since the fourth grade, when my mom still packed me lunches and waited with me at the bus stop.

I feel a little dumb now, standing on the edges of the fair, sequestered with the herd animals. This isn’t why I’ve taken so many risks. I didn’t steal Sonny’s truck and blow my savings just to stand next to an old cowboy and talk ranch.

I push off the fence. “You have a great day, sir.”

“Already done,” he drawls. “You enjoy the fair.”

Already done. I make my way past the tent where you can hold a baby piglet, then the pen in which the little kids wander around with wire brushes combing the goats. Every time I pass another animal, I travel farther away from my father.

The sun closes in on setting. I remind myself: My plan is thoughtful and careful. I arrived early to take stock of the premises, to walk the perimeter and map out routes through the crowds and the chaos. Now I know. I move confidently.

I even put down a five-dollar bill to throw three darts at a wall of balloons. “Ladies and gents—she’s an ace shot.” I don’t duck from the attention. I just smile and shake my head slightly. Refuse the prize and step back to disappear into the crowd.

It’s getting dark. The moms are pulling their wagons toward the exits. The fairgrounds are filling with teenagers and maybe even college kids. People closer to my age—either version of me. I make sure to cover a good distance from the rodeo before I take my cell phone out and snap a few selfies. I don’t want to shatter the old cowboy’s wholesome image of me but the glow of the Gravitron looks otherworldly.

Near the amphitheater, folks have already begun to line up for the night’s first performance. But I don’t need to get so close. Not quite yet. For now, I’ll just hang back and support from a distance.

Behind me, some punk kid with mismatched Vans and a board beneath his arm mutters to his friend, “Why are people lining up for seats already? People need to keep MOVING.” He bellows the last part obnoxiously, as if expecting the crowd to part in front of him. Sometimes I wonder how other people take up so much space in the world. How they just blare their voices into the world, figuring that other people want to hear them.

His friend says, “It’s just some influencer. Nobody really.”

I clench my bag to my side and keep my eyes fixed forward. No one has lined up at the state fair to see Skaterboy and his friend careen down the metal railing of a public staircase. None of their ollies or kickbacks or whatevers have gone viral. It doesn’t really matter, I remind myself. Not everyone will understand.