“Next thing you know,” she says as she finishes the neat wrap and tapes it in place, “the Mad Hatter trips, crashes into the Goblin King’s stilt, and they both fly tush over teakettle!”

I laugh as hard as everyone, but I can’t help comparing the reaction to Ale’s fall to mine back at school. Why couldn’t everyone just laugh that one off? It was a comedy of errors, too, thanks to good old Logan. We thank the nurse, who gives Ale crutches and tells her to ice again tonight and go easy a few days, then get back to window-shopping and creature watching.

We get to the music stage a little early, where a Celtic band is playing a set. The lead singer is dressed like a butterfly and spins as she sings, like she might take flight. People dance and twirl on the grass in front of the stage, caught up in the music. They make space for us, and we immediately start spinning and clapping with the crowd. Ale’s bee antennae bobble as she hop-dances on her crutches. The song ends, and the one that follows makes me go cold.

It’s a slower song that Mom used to play, and it floods me with memories. Past Fairy Festivals, how excited she’d get over the music and costumes.

Making music with her on our tiny back porch, her playing and me singing. The guitar Mom saved spare change in a coffee can a whole year to buy—little mother-of-pearl moons inlaid up the neck and the top printed with a picture of a lady in a boat she said was from a painting in some museum all the way over in Europe. She dreamed of going there one day to see it for real. We’ll need more than a coffee can to save all that change, she’d joke, but we’ll do it.

I was going to start lessons, too, before everything happened. Now the guitar hides in the closet, way back behind all those costumes.

As I blink hard, reminding myself it’s only a song, I catch sight of Dad’s green-and-brown tunic. He’s standing behind the stage, near a little grove of trees hung with ribbons and charms to look like a fairy grotto. He’s half turned toward the music, can’t see me watching. The sunlight catches the tears sliding down his face before I can look away.

I freeze, the festival and the dancers spinning around me. Part of me wants to go over, to actually talk about Mom for once. To talk about everything. All the crap I’ve been dealing with now, all the things we’ve never said before.

But that’s not us.

I know how Dad deals. He gets things done, keeps things fixed. The more stressed he is, the faster he moves, always, always, pushing forward, never looking sideways or backward.

Also, if I watch him cry, I’ll probably cry, too.

So I take a deep breath and get it together. Then I shove my wheels hard enough to set my chair spinning to the music again.