Two little boys run past me, almost knocking me over in their excitement as they clamber over to the woman selling cotton candy and popcorn. I snap a picture of them in motion, their bodies blurred against a solid background of oak-green wooden booths and the much taller legs of the adults standing behind them. I don’t know what I’ll call it yet, but it brings to mind wind chimes. I think of Emily and Avery. They probably ran through this bazaar, too. I think of Jenna. The whales waft happily between booths like great blue storm clouds.

The camera strap around my neck feels like a warm scarf against the slight chill in the air, and I wonder how long my hair will hold the scent of caramel popcorn and fried dough.

“Like it?”

I half assume it’s Nolan at first, but Alex is the one smiling at me. His eyes are strained around the corners, and expectant, like what I think of the bazaar really matters.

“Alex, it’s beautiful,” I say. “Like, crazy good.”

He nods, like this is bare-minimum praise. “So, not too bad?”

“I’m sure your mom is proud,” I try again.

“You haven’t been going to these every year for your whole life,” Alex says. “It’s … maybe just barely okay in comparison.”

“It’s the best I’ve seen,” Nolan says. He comes up between Alex and me and bumps his shoulder against Alex’s. “You redesigned the layout of the booths.”

Alex shrugs. “I thought maybe if the food vendors were spread out instead of in one spot, it might increase foot traffic and encourage people to try more than one thing, and—”

“Alex,” Nolan interrupts. “It’s awesome. Really.”

What a strange turn of events, Nolan bolstering Alex with confidence and kindness. Even though he’s nearly obsessed with the perfection of the bazaar, Alex must realize this, too, because the look he gives Nolan is a mix of pride and surprise.

I raise my camera and take a photo.

“Bromance,” I say, cupping my hand around the screen to see the thumbnail. “Aww, it turned out cute.”

“Cute,” Alex says, right as Nolan says, “Delete that immediately.”

Nolan goes for the camera, but I jerk it out of his reach, catching some of my hair in the neck strap and wincing.

“No way. It’s your fault I’m playing photographer, and now you want to rain on my creativity? I don’t think so.”

Nolan shoots Alex a sardonic look.

“Is it too late to get a less manipulative photographer?”

“I’ll call up Dr. Faust,” Alex deadpans. “Maybe he’ll have an idea.”

I’m filled with a goofiness that surprises me, wiggling my fingers at them brazenly over my shoulder as I go to take photos of the booths.