Neon Midway

As soon as Claire entered the gate of the Neon Midway, she sensed the thick smell of burnt sugar and hot hydraulic oil; the sky, invisible, erased by a canopy of strobing LED lights and the dizzying, skeletal rotation of the Ferris wheel - it hung like a glowing crown jewel against the dark horizon.

Claire pulled her cardigan tighter, though the night was sweltering. The transition from the stillness of the bus station to the concentrated, artificial mania of the Neon Midway felt like diving into a pressurized chamber. She checked her phone—nothing but the reflection of a neon-pink “THRILL RIDE” sign on the dark screen. No text from Ally.

Just traffic, she tthought. Or maybe she’s already waiting by the entrance to the Tilt-A-Whirl.

She pushed deeper into the crowd: a dense, pulsing organism; groups of teenagers in matching school jerseys shoved past her, laughing with an intensity that bordered on manic; a family of four wove a frantic path, the youngest child clutching a plush dragon the size of his torso. The ground vibrated beneath her feet; a rhythmic thrumming from the subwoofers of a nearby dance attraction resonated in her chest.

Despite the encroaching headache, the fa...