Some children waved at him, he made a few sales to some parents, and then seated himself on one of the crates outside one of the game booths.

Lucy stared at him.

Thalidomide Man looked around to make sure no one was paying any attention to him, then carefully but forcefully rubbed the stumps of his legs as if they pained him.

He stopped when he saw Lucy staring at him.

And Lucy was staring because she had just realized something.

She paid for the funnel cake, handed it to Randy, then took hold of the child’s hand and walked over to where Thalidomide Man was sitting.

“Ah a new customer! Ma’am, young sir. May I interest you in—”

“You weren’t born this way, were you?” asked Lucy.

Thalidomide Man’s face suddenly became granite, his manner cautious. “You with the police or the sheriff’s department? ‘Cause if you are, we already took care of—”

“I’m not with the authorities,” she said, removing a one-hundred dollar bill from her pocket and offering it to him. “This is yours if you’ll answer my question.”

Thalidomide Man looked at the money, then at her face. “How do I know you’re not a reporter, then, come here to do one of those ‘exposés’ on carny life—y’know, where you ‘reveal’ all the cons and corruption and all that?”

“I am not a reporter.”

Thalidomide Man looked at Randy. “This woman your mother, son?”

“No, sir. She’s a friend of me an’ my parents.”

“That a fact, is it?”

“Uh-huh. And she ain’t no reporter.”

Thalidomide Man nodded. “Well, then, handsome sir, I’ll take your word for it.” He looked at the bill in Lucy’s hand. “You produce a twin for that Benji in your hand and I’ll answer your question.”

Lucy found another hundred and gave them to him.

“Son,” he said to Randy. “Do me a favor, will you?” He removed the quiver from his back and offered it to Randy. “Take this here and go sit on that other crate right over there and count how many little rocking horses I got left, would you?”

“I don’t want him out of my sight,” whispered Lucy.

“He won’t be. He’ll just be right over there.” Then Thalidomide Man produced a small device that looked like a fountain pen and gave it to Randy. “Keep hold of this, son. Anyone bothers you or tries anything, you click on the top of this pen like you were gonna write something, okay?”

“How come?”

“You click on that, and it lets fly with a noise so loud it’d scare the hair off a dog’s ass. Ain’t no one gonna bother you after that.” He looked at Lucy. “That help relieve your anxiety any?”

She exhaled, then looked at Randy. “Go on. Go count the rocking horses for him.”

“Okay.” This said with a smile.

Randy seated himself on the other crate—less than six feet away from them—and set about his duties, stopping occasionally to take a bite of yummy funnel cake.