She stepped up to the turnstile. It was waist-high, its three arms forming a silent, stubborn Y. A sign above read: One Ticket. One Turn. One Way Through.
Clara pushed harder. The fairgrounds stretched like taffy. A carousel’s music drifted, slowed, then stopped entirely. The lights began to flicker one by one. Her mother’s image rippled, like a reflection in a pond someone had dropped a stone into.
“Just a minute more, sweetheart,” her mother said, voice clear as a bell. “You’re almost here.”