I brace myself under Shea’s weight. There’s no time to appreciate how much we look alike, standing there, arms wrapped around each other, surrounded by mirrors. I have minutes—maybe even seconds—to navigate through this maze and the maze of what comes after.

Half limping, we reach the bag I stashed near the fun-house exit. I wrap my Carhartt jacket around her, lower her hood, and tug a navy ribbed wool cap over her hair. She looks different enough. We might just skate on by. I can’t do much about her trademark sneakers or the mint green in general.

We careen through the exit. I don’t let myself look toward Shea’s friends, who are all gathered by a bench. I’ve been careful, drifting along the edges of the fair—never too close to the group, but near enough to track her movements. With my hair down, with makeup all done up, they won’t recognize me from our run-in at the studio.

“Dude—” I say loudly enough for the workers at the Tilt-A-Whirl to hear me. “You know how sick you get on spinning rides. Know when to stop already. Just try not to puke, okay?”

No one’s paying attention, though. My performance is unnecessary. It’s amazing to think of the crowd of folks who gathered to watch Shea dance not even two hours ago. And yet no one notices her now.

We move slowly. I wish I could have arranged to meet Shea closer to the spot where Sonny’s truck is parked and waiting. The truth is I hadn’t meant for all of this to happen so soon. But when Shea posted yesterday after rehearsal that she’d booked a surprise appearance at the state fair, the change in plans felt preordained. Sometimes stars line up just right.

Pretending the studio had double-booked us was supposed to be the first phase of many. That way, Shea would know from the start that I, too, am a dancer. I would keep seeing her around town. That would have made it easier to collaborate. It’s going to be more of a challenge, I think, to establish the strong connection we need in these circumstances.

If I’m being perfectly honest, her personality is a little bit disappointing. Shea is self-obsessed in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Maybe that’s on me—self-obsession probably checks out for a professional influencer. For example, Shea had every opportunity to get to know me at the studio. She didn’t ask me about myself at all. She barely registered my existence. None of them did.

Now I get her to the lot before her friends even notice she’s gone. I know there are cameras everywhere, so I make it look like we’re having a good time together.

It’s hard, though, because she can barely walk. She’d just fall to the ground if she weren’t leaning on me. Luckily, the truck’s in the trees, hidden from cameras.

“It’s okay, Shea. You just overdid it,” I soothe her. “Don’t worry about anything. I’m right here and I’m going to take you home.”

“Del?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Just let me get you in the car.”

It takes all my strength to boost Shea into the passenger seat. Then I buckle her in. “There we go,” I say. I reach down into my bag, grab one of the bungee cords, and wrap it around both her wrists tight. She yelps and I tie the knot quickly, binding Shea’s hands together on her lap. It’s a move I spent a lot of time practicing, and I’m pleased that all my practice paid off. There’s no way she’ll be able to undo the knots in her current state.

When I slam the door shut, she sits straight up and lets loose this ungodly scream. I look around, but luckily, no one seems to notice—not with the riders yelling from the roller coaster, the screamers twisting on the Zipper.

“Now stop that already,” I say when I get in the car. “You’re really going to hurt yourself.”

“Sthorrrrwy,” she slurs.

I glance back at the fair gates, half expecting Shea’s friends to come sprinting toward us. For the first time, I notice a car with PIERCE COUNTY SHERIFF emblazoned across its doors. It’s way past time to get on the road.

I turn the key in the ignition.

“Please, please.” Strings of drool hang from the corners of her mouth and snot runs from her nose.

“Don’t distract me when I’m driving.” Firm and friendly. I carefully back the truck out of the spot and head out. I’m relieved when Shea passes back out against the headrest.

We inch along in the exiting traffic. I stop myself from checking my rearview mirror every ten seconds, from glancing back at the sheriff’s car or even the Ferris wheel turning against the night. Shea doesn’t look too good. The lot is full of people. All anyone has to do is turn toward the truck and really study her.

Once we fully exit, I finally exhale. Drive a few blocks and then pull the truck over to the curb. I feel Shea wake and tense next to me. Her wrists pull at the cord, but I really did a bang-up job on that knot. It just gets tighter when she tugs.

“Don’t do that,” I tell her. “It’ll just tighten and then you’ll need to worry about cutting circulation off to your hands. We don’t want that, right?”

I grab my phone and lean my head closer to Shea’s. Hold it up to snap a selfie—our first one together. “You know what?” I tell her. “I just need to adjust a little bit.” I cover Shea’s bound hands with my duffel. Then I hold the phone back up and snap several more pics. “That’s so much better,” I tell her.

But she’s tired. She squeezes her eyes shut and turns to her window.

“I know,” I say. “I hear you. Let’s get on the road.”