Page 17 of The Knucklebone Brothers

"Ready for the main event?" I asked, my voice low.

Maverick's eyes lit up. "Always."

We stepped through the curtain into the big room. This was the real heart. The air was cooler here, thick with the smell of dust and old preservation chemicals. It was a large, circular room, the kind they used to use for the sideshows, and it was filled with our family's collection.

The lights were low, coming from a few bare bulbs strung overhead, casting long shadows from the exhibits. This wasn't just taxidermy. This was art. This was the strange and the impossible, made real. Against one wall stood the Feejee Mermaid, her mummified body and fish tail fused together in a grotesque embrace. In the center of the room, under a spotlight, was the famous Jackalope, its antlers branching out from the head of a large rabbit, its glass eyes forever wide with surprise.

Maverick walked over to it, running a finger over its coarse fur. "Remember when we were kids?" he said, his voice soft with nostalgia. "We used to pretend he was our pet."

"We'd try to ride him," I added, a faint smile touching my lips. "Momma would whoop our asses for scuffin' up the varnish."

These gaffs had seen so many shows. They'd traveled all over the country, from dusty county fairs to big city carnivals. They'd been stared at by thousands of people, a source of wonder and fear. Now they just sat here, in the dark, for us. For our own personal shows. They were our heritage.

"They're waitin' for her," Maverick said, his voice barely a whisper. He was looking at a row of shrunken heads, their faces frozen in silent screams. "They're waitin' for the new act to begin."

I looked around the room, at all the strange and wonderful things our family had collected over the years. This was our legacy. This was our world. And soon, she would be a part of it. She would be the star of our show.

"She'll fit right in," I said, my voice firm. "She's one of us."

Maverick nodded, his eyes still on the shrunken heads. "Yeah," he said. "She is."

We stood there for a long time, in the quiet, dark room, surrounded by the ghosts of our past. The show never ends. And tomorrow, the main event begins.

"Alright," Maverick said, clapping his hands together. "Let's make it presentable for the new act."

He grabbed a couple of rags from a nearby shelf and tossed one to me. We got to work, a quick clean-up. It wasn't deep, just a once-over. I wiped down the glass case of the Feejee Mermaid, my movements sure and practiced. Maverick was humming to himself as he dusted the Jackalope, his rag running over its coarse fur and fake antlers. We didn't speak. We didn't have to. This was our language. The shared task, the quiet understanding.

After a few minutes, the room looked a little brighter, a little less forgotten. We put the rags away and stood in the center of the room, looking around at our handiwork.

Maverick turned to me, a glint in his green eyes. He straightened up, a slow grin spreading across his face.

"You ready to get your ass whooped?" he asked, his voice full of amusement.

I couldn't help but let out a low chuckle. "Born ready," I rumbled back.

We left the quiet of the den, the door groaning shut behind us, plunging the gaffs back into darkness. Instead of heading back to the main trailer, Maverick veered left, toward the heart of the old midway. The path here was wider, made of packed-down dirt that had once been trod by thousands of feet. Now, it was just ours.

We stepped into a clearing that opened up like a secret. A small, raised stage, its wooden planks warped and stained, stood outside of the big top tent. In front of the stage were a few old game booths. A milk bottle pyramid. A ring toss. A high-striker game, its bell long since silent.

Maverick walked over to one of the game booths, the one with all the knives. He pulled up a crate and sat down, picking up one of the throwing knives. He pulled a whetstone from his pocket and started to draw the blade across it, the shink... shink... shink sound the only noise in the dead air.

Without a word, I walked over and stood about fifteen feet away, facing him. He didn't look up, just flicked his wrist. The knife spun through the air, a silver flash in the dim light. I held up my hand, and the handle slapped into my palm. I caught it, one-handed. Shink, flick, catch. Shink, flick, catch. It was a game we'd played since we were kids. As natural as breathing.

After the fifth knife, he stopped. He stood up, putting the whetstone away. We both turned to face the empty stage.

"Alright, big boy," he said, nudging me with his elbow. "Time to practice for your adoring public."

I grunted, but a smirk was already pulling at my lips. We walked up the steps and onto the warped planks. We stood side-by-side, facing the empty benches, the ghost of a crowd.

"Remember to smile pretty now," Maverick drawled, putting on a high-pitched, fake voice. "Don't wanna disappoint the folks."

"Fuck you," I shot back, but I was already playing along.

On some silent, stupid cue, we both bowed. It wasn't a real bow. It was a sloppy, exaggerated dip, like we were about to fall over. I nearly did, my boot catching on a loose plank. Maverick snorted a laugh.

We straightened up, slouching.

And we smiled.