It was a dilapidated but still incredibly cool mini putt course. Really a fine example of the twisted logic of most fun parks built before the aughts: a mix of possibly “realistic” and “fantastical,” concrete creatures all painted in chipped neons and bright hues. A two-headed dragon loomed over the first hole. A timid giraffe stood stunned over the third hole. A furious lion looked like it was choking on the fifth hole, its left paw cracked to show the metal rods holding the whole circus together.

“It’s weird that it’s kind of cute,” I said.

I stepped toward a bear and suddenly something clicked. The bear’s fur was a kaleidoscope of colors, neon blues and oranges I recognized—from Berry’s hands.

“You’re painting them!”

“Oh.” Pink streaks bloomed on Berry’s cheeks. “I mean, when I’m stressed, I give them a little touch-up.”

I spun around, taking it all in—the giraffe’s psychedelic-patterned polka dots, the panda’s green spectacles. “It’s amazing.” I sighed.

“Thanks.” Berry held out a rusted putter in one hand and a chewed-up-looking ball in the other. “Madam.”

“Thanks,” I said, my voice hoarse.

Berry twirled her putter as she walked up to the first hole and dropped her ball by her feet. “Baton lessons,” she said, tossing the putter up and catching it with one hand.

“No kidding. Because you wanted to, like, join the marching band?”

“I’m in the marching band.” Berry grinned.

“Wait. I knew you were in the stage band, but you also marc h? While playing the tuba? How did I not know this?!”

“I mean, yeah, you don’t know all my talents yet. I play the flute and the sax, and I can spin a baton like no one’s business.”

“That’s legitimately amazing.” I made a mental note to ask Berry more questions about herself.

Berry tossed the putter up into the air and, after a wobble, snatched it just before it nailed the sleeping concrete leopard.

I clapped. “Maybe you should audition for the play.”

“Nah.” Berry nudged her ball with her toe.

I took a deep breath. The smell of burgers floated through the air, mixed with what was clearly fresh paint. Berry chipped the ball and it bounced along the edge of the green, zigzagging along the rough terrain. “I was just thinking about why Greenville likes people in pajamas,” she said.

“Why?” I dropped my ball.

“It’s like when you’re a little kid,” Berry said. “And you go to parties and stuff, like going to the park to watch the fireworks with your pj’s and your sleeping bags. It’s like. . .this idea that it’s your home. Maybe Greenville likes that, that feeling of home.”

“So, it’s nostalgia?” I wondered.

“I guess.” Berry reached her putter behind her to scratch her back. “Maybe it’s just an excuse not to get dressed up.”