yours.

[26] Jasper

There's about 42 centimetres of space between Miles' arm and mine.

I know this because I've been acutely aware of this space ever since I got in the car with him and my hand started begging me to let it close the distance between us. But I stay firmly on my side of the car, my hands folded neatly in my lap.

Miles keeps looking over at me as if he expects me to say something, like an explanation of what happened in my house. But I've already made it very clear I don't want to talk about it, and I definitely don't want to think more about it. Though I do expect to find a new bruise on the left side of my ribs tomorrow.

When we arrive at the carnival, I have to say, I'm... impressed? There's far more to see than I was expecting. It turns out this county takes its fairgrounds very seriously.

I climb out of the car, staring up at the tents and booths and spinning rides, all aglow in the evening sunlight. It looks to me like a fun place to get lost in.

It's not until Miles bumps my arm that I realize all three of the siblings are watching me. The eldest one -- Chelsea, I remember -- smiles at me, tucking a wild strand of red hair behind her ear. It's a wonder she and Miles are blood-related -- they look nothing alike. "Never been to a carnival?" she asks knowingly.

"I... um, no. Not really."

"Does he have an accent?" the small one, Lesley, asks, peering up at Chelsea. Then she turns to me. "Do you have an accent?"

Before I can answer with my usual response -- "I was about to ask you the same" -- Miles hooks an arm around my shoulders, guiding me to the ticket booth. "How about we pay for admission first?"

Chelsea pulls out her wallet, and I want to step in, to tell her I'll pay for my own ticket. But I can't, not as long as I have zero dollars to my name.

Inside the carnival's gates, children run by us, carrying clouds of cotton candy larger than their heads and begging their parents to let them go on this ride, no, this one... Meanwhile, their parents follow them, all smiles, acting on their every whim.

They're all... happy.

"I know you losers probably want to hang out," Chelsea sighs, taking Lesley's hand. "So we can split up, if you'd like."

Miles nods. "Sounds good. See you, Chels." He motions toward the path opposite his sisters. I follow him.

"Be back at nine-thirty!" she calls, but we're already gone, swept away by the crowd. When the mass of people around us thins out enough to make audible conversation, Miles nudges my arm, looking at the booths of games lining our path.

"Want to play one? The games all come free with admission," he offers, eyeing one. I follow his gaze to the... Whack-a-Mole station.

"What is that?"

His eyes widen. "You've never played Whack-a-Mole?" When I shrug, he takes me by the arm and drags me to the booth. The worker there tells us we can't play without our Park Passes, and when it's clear I don't know what that is, Miles pulls two red paper wristbands from his pocket. He skillfully dons his, then holds the other out to me.

My mouth opens, then closes. "I... um--" Wordlessly, Miles wraps mine around my wrist and seals it in place.

"You've really never been to a carnival," he mutters, then unhooks a furry, oversize mallet from a hook beside a game board riddled with holes. He hands it to me. "So moles are going to come up out of this board, okay? And you're going to hit--"

"What?" I stare down at the mallet. "I'm playing?"

He grins, nodding. "You are," he confirms, and I roll my eyes. "Just hit them as soon as they come up. Oh, and they're fast. Good luck." He pats me on the back, his hand lingering for just a second before dropping away.

The carny starts up the game, and some fuzzy, green... monstrosity rises from the center gap in the board. I quickly slam it with the mallet, but as soon as I make contact, there's another one near my elbow. It disappears before I can hit it, into the abyss below the game. And then there's another, and another, and another. I hit as many as I can, and by the end, I'm nearly sweating, my breaths labored. A blinking sign advertises my score: 12,000.

I look up at Miles. "Was that... was that good?" I pant.

He forces a smile as the worker laughs. "You need at least 25 grand to win a prize," he tells me, gesturing to the array of stuffed animals hanging on the wall beside him. "So, over double your score."

I frown, and Miles takes the mallet from me. "I got this," he says, confidence dripping from his tone. The worker warns us we can only go one more time after this -- same with all the games: three tries and three tries only -- and presses the button to start the game. Miles whacks the moles with surprising speed and accuracy, and by the end of the game, he's earned a score of 43,000.

I gape at him, then his score, and back again. "You... what?"

He smiles, a real, genuine smile this time, and I inch closer to him. "Chelsea and I used to compete as kids. My highscore is... 45, I think."

The worker asks if Miles wants a prize, and he looks the stuffed animals over before declining. Miles thanks him for letting us play, and we're off.

"Why didn't you get me a teddy bear?" I accuse. "The purple one was cute."

Miles pales, and panic flits through his gaze. He glances back at the booth behind us. "I'm sorry, I can... We can go back--"

"I'm teasing, Miles."

His shoulders sink under his grey T-shirt in relief. He takes a breath, sighing, "You've got to stop messing with me."

"Or what?" I challenge.

"Or I'll die." He looks down at me, cracking a smile. "And I don't think either of us wants that."

You have no idea. I don't know how to respond, so I don't. Instead, I let us walk in silence for a few metres before venturing, "So... You did say you come here every year, right?" He nods. "And you hate it? Every year?"

"Only because of my sisters. Maybe this year, it'll be different." And I can almost hear his unspoken words: Because of you.