Photo Booth

Casey

″Uncle Casey, why is it taking so long?″

His nephew groaned, yawning as he stretched out his limbs like a cat. ″I don′t mind, though,″ he said. ″I like being with you.″

Even in his most irritable state, Hammy was an angel, thought Casey. He′d never met a five-year-old quite as eager to wait in line for an hour, shift the weight between his throbbing feet and ask the most adorable questions to pass the time, all because he loved his uncle enough to not throw a fit. Gingerly, Casey slid an arm around the boy′s waist, hoisting him up by his tiny bum as the younger wrapped his hands around the elder′s broad shoulders.

″How did you know my feet hurt?″ giggled the sweetheart.

″Why, I′m your Uncle Casey,″ he said, trying to mimic the soothing voices that narrated kids′ television shows. ″I always know what′s up with my little boy.″

″You sound like Eor,″ Hammy snickered. Casey smirked to hide a blush.

Fifteen minutes passed. ″They′re definitely screwing with us,″ said Hammy.

Casey′s brows shot to his hairline. ″Definitely,″ he agreed, slightly taken aback by the boy′s vocabulary. At least he said screw, Casey thought, more as self-assurance.

He′d once heard a little girl on the Underground swear at whom Casey could only guess was her father, spewing more F words than he knew existed.

″Hey,″ he trailed, setting Hammy down. The boy hesitated before disentangling his arms from Casey′s shoulders. ″Wait right here, baby. I′ll find out why, uh ...″

″Why they′re screwing with us?″ Hammy suggested.

″Precisely,″ said the elder, torn between feeling guilty that he′d let his nephew swear and glad that he didn′t have to finish his own sentence.

He stalked up the line, ignoring the scoffs or other carnival-goers who′d been waiting, too. ″Excuse me,″ he called, leaning past a teenaged couple who were next-in-line to purchase coupons. He shot the girls an apologetic look, masking the scorn that tightened his kind features as he faced the booth operator. ″What′s the hold up?″

″Ride′s broken,″ he said, chewing a corndog noisily. ″It′s gonna be a while till they fix it.″

″Wha － how long?″ Casey demanded, seething. ″Also, you couldn′t be bothered to have told us sooner, huh?″

The man shrugged. Casey felt a sudden urge to stick his fist through the separating glass and punch that corndog into his stupid face. ″Look, kid, I′m just doing my job.″

Kid? Perhaps babysitting Hammy had made Casey feel older, mature. In reality, he wasn′t as tall as the brunette in the couple that stood behind him, and his cheeks, often compared to a toddler′s, had a tendency of growing flushed whenever he felt a surge of anger. His initial plan to ″lodge an ethical complaint″ now seemed a lot more like a hissy fit, even in his own eyes.

″You′re holding up the line,″ the blonde behind him whined.

Keep your mouth shut, he chided himself. There′s no need to smack anyone.

Collecting himself and regaining composure, he said swiftly, ″G′day, sir.″ Slinking off, he muttered obscenities under his breath. He racked his brain for ideas on how to make it up to Hammy. More ice cream? His sister would never let him babysit Hammy again if the kid came home with a stuffy nose. Carousel rides till the park closes? That sounded like a better idea. Surely Hammy wouldn′t mind if －

Casey stopped in his tracks, breath as heavy as lead. His throat pulsed with the rapid drum of his Adam′s apple. His eyes scanned the line, darting across his surroundings like threatened prey scouting for predators. Except that Casey wasn′t the one that needed to be found. There was no trace of the boy′s footprints, not even a glimpse of his striking raincoat as far as the eyes could see.

He′s gone.