“Sharp? I’ll decide that.” She leaned against the wall. “I’m Glory. Gloria May, but they call me Glory.” She grinned. “Because I’m so glorious.”

She stuck out a hand, the way a boy would. Pin took it, trying to think of something clever to say, finally just shrugged. “Pleased to meet you.”

Glory dropped her hand. “You looking for someone?”

“Yeah. Lionel Gerring. He’s a writer—know where I can find him?”

“Stage, probably. That way.” She pointed into the corridor. “Maybe I’ll see you later. Or drop by anytime. I’ll be around somewhere.”

In her room, Pin gazed at the picture of Harriet Quimby but thought of Glory. Maybe she’d invite her to the amusement park one day. Maybe she’d get another chance to hold her hand, on one of the coasters or the Old Mill. Not Hell Gate. She wouldn’t go inside there again on a dare.

She did a futile search of the shack in hopes of finding something edible, spotted a tin of lemon drops tucked into her mother’s red bag. But the tin was empty. She dug around in the bag till she came up with a dime. Sometimes her mother gave her money for food, but usually she forgot. Pin checked to make sure her mother was breathing evenly, and went outside.

She wondered with apprehension if the park would even be open the day after a murder. But Matthew, the manager of the Kansas Cyclone theater, had already arrived for work. He stood in front of the Cyclone building, staring, baffled, at a piece of camera equipment in his hands. A projector. He glanced up as she approached.

“Heya, kid. You don’t got a pin on ya, do you?”

She shook her head. “Sorry.”

Matthew sighed. “Something’s stuck in here, but I’m afraid if I try to fix it, it’ll fall apart.”

“Can I see?”

Matthew squinted at her. “You know about projectors?”

Nodding, she fooled with the projector’s gate. She managed to open it and felt inside until she found the culprit.

“Here it is.” She held up a shriveled strip that looked like a piece of dried-up bacon. “A piece of melted film got stuck. Someone should’ve cleaned it out.”

She flicked it away and handed the projector back to Matthew. “How old is that thing, anyway?”

Matthew shot her a wry look. “Old.”

“I figured.” She pointed at the slot the film passed through as the projector ran. “Those older cameras they used to shoot with, the film wasn’t, you know, perforated. So they’d punch in the holes after they processed it. But everyone uses different kinds of perforators, and the holes don’t always line up with the wheels in the projector. You should get a Bell and Howell perforator, that’s what they use at Essanay.”

“Bell and Howell, huh?” Matthew regarded Pin, amused but also impressed.