The wheel stops. Double doors open on the bottom six gondolas. A family of four enters one of the cars and begins their trip around. Evil Twin Family.

I pull the rim of my knit hat lower over my brow.

The kids—twins from the look of it—had been screaming and crying over who stood in front while waiting in line. Their parents, tourists, didn’t know what to do. They looked exhausted and, more importantly, distracted.

The high-pitched screech of iron twisting and bending worms its way into my consciousness and yanks my attention upward. A surge of wind rocks the gondola at the wheel’s peak. It’s reckless and fast. Brackets pop. Hinges snap. The gondola plunges downward, ricocheting off metal spokes like a Ping-Pong ball in an arcade game. The wind smacks it, vaulting it in an arc through the air until it crashes against the cement, smattering into millions of pieces.

I squeeze my eyes. Not real.

I tick off each sense as I focus on it—a breeze brushing against my face, the smell of lake water and funnel cake, the carousel’s muffled recording of an organ playing carnival music.

When I look again, Evil Twin Family is ascending the Chicago skyline, the Ferris wheel completely unharmed.

I push my aviators tight against my face and walk toward stroller parking.

The key is to keep moving. Look like I belong. Thirty-eight paces to the stroller, I grab the woman’s cell from the cup holder and make my way to the line for the Ferris wheel. I don’t look around. I don’t speed up. My heartbeat rings in my ears as I slide the phone inside my bag. I glance up, pretending to be awed by the Ferris wheel’s height. Evil Twin Family, in car eleven, has completed their first rotation.

It’s ten o’clock on a weekday. The line is short. I wave off the camera guy taking commemorative pictures. He nods without protest. It’s weird I’m here by myself. If he doesn’t take a picture of me standing in front of the green screen alone, he doesn’t have to feel sorry for me.

I snake my way through the ropes. The attendant points to a number. I walk across the aluminum platform and wait, trying to ignore the restless energy flowing through my arms.

When the doors open, I freeze. Evil Twin Family sits in the gondola I’m about to climb into. The kids scream—they don’t want to get off. Sweat dampens my forehead beneath my hat, matting my hair against my head. My aviators slide down my nose, but I refuse to push them back.