Rocco opened the passenger door and held out his hand. “Come on!”
Nico got out.
“There’s a pair of ’em,” someone yelled.
“Throw ’em back,” cried someone else.
Everyone laughed. The man with the fishing rod came running after them.
Rocco grabbed Nico’s hand. “Don’t let go. It can get pretty crazy, and it’s easy to get lost.”
They took off and didn’t slow to a walk until they’d reached the middle of the village. He led her through a crowd of people until they came to some musicians playing a lively song while people wearing colorful costumes, hats, and black masks danced.
“The people dancing are the Mascher,” he said.
“I thought you said we have to watch out for them.”
Just then the music stopped, and one of them pointed at Nico and Rocco.
“We do,” he said as a group of them came running toward them.
“Come on,” he cried, and they took off.
They turned a corner, and another group of Mascher jumped out at them.
“This way,” he called as he pulled Nico after him.
They turned left and then right, running through a maze of streets until they came back to the village square, which was swarming with people. Rocco carved a path through the mass of bodies, heading for the center, looking to lose themselves in the crowd.
Suddenly, his hand felt empty, and it dropped to his side. He turned around.
“Nico!” he shouted. “Nico!”
He pushed his way back through the bodies, retracing his steps, his heart beating with such force that he felt as though it had leapt outside him and was propelling him forward rather than his feet.
“Nico!”
“Rocco!”
He stopped and looked around.
“Nico! Where are you?”
Suddenly, he saw her hand waving back and forth above the heads in the crowd.
“I’m coming,” he shouted, running toward it.
Finally, he saw her standing with a group of women wearing masks and done up like old hags.
“There’s a pair of them!” one of them shouted.
“More to go around!”
Some of them made obscene gestures.
He gripped her hand, yelling, “Don’t let go!”
“You don’t let go!”
