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She was billed as “Midget Stella,” though she loathed the word with a heat that could melt asphalt. Her real name was Estella Marguerite Finch, and she was twenty-three years old, three feet eleven inches tall, and tired of being a joke with a heartbeat.

“For the road,” he said.

Stella looked at the painted horses, their eyes wild and vacant. “They don’t go anywhere.” midget stella

The carnival rolled into town every October, a greasy, glittering promise of escape. For the locals, it was a distraction. For Stella, it was the only mirror she had. She was billed as “Midget Stella,” though she

That night, Stella stopped smiling for the crowd. She stopped curtsying. She stood on her mushroom, stared straight into the fifth row where the heckler sat, and sang “Over the Rainbow” so slowly, so raw, that the wolf man forgot to chase her. The laughter faltered. A woman in the front row started to cry. Stella looked at the painted horses, their eyes