That peace lasts for exactly twenty minutes because then I see the penguin.
It’s at a ring-toss booth near the back. The prizes are hung along the walls, ranging from small plastic keychains toprogressively larger animals, and at the top, hanging from a hook in the center of the back wall, is the largest stuffed penguin I have ever seen.
It’s enormous. Its eyes are slightly too far apart, which somehow makes it more endearing. It has a little orange beak and a round belly, and it’s approximately the size of a golden retriever.
I stop walking.
Griffin walks two steps farther before he realizes the air behind him has emptied out.
He turns back. “Piper?”
“I need that penguin.”
He looks at the booth. “The ring-toss penguin?”
“Yes.”
“That’s four feet tall.”
“I’m aware.”
“What would you even do with it?”
I look at him like he’s dense. “I would have it.”
He opens his mouth.
“Griffin.” I turn to face him fully. “I need the penguin.”
He closes his mouth and gestures toward the booth. “Lead the way.”
The man running the booth is called Dale.
“Three rings for two dollars,” Dale says. “Land two on the bottles, you win a small prize. Land all three, and you can move up.”
I assess the setup. Standard ring toss. Glass bottles, plastic rings.
Griffin hands Dale two dollars.
My first three rings: one on, two off.
Griffin hands over two more dollars.
Round two: two on, one off.
I’m aware that Griffin has taken a position to my left, arms crossed, watching.
“You’re dropping your elbow,” he says.
“I am not dropping my elbow.”
“You are. Your release point is too low. The ring’s going flat.”
I look at him. “Do you know anything about ring toss?”
“I know about projectile trajectory.”
“Oh my God.”
