He sized up his competition. When Killer trotted by, Lee squeezed a rubber ball in his pocket, and it made a quick, rusty-hinge kind of noise, something like a woodland creature’s chuckle. Killer startled, ears pricking up, but then he kept going as before, bounding up the slats of a stepladder atop of which waited a sausage.

It was an impressive feat, but Lee was unafraid, in that he knew Killer hadn’t been trained with the secret weapon of a squeak toy.

By the time Killer had ridden on the back of the motorcycle—Lee clocked him at fifteen miles per hour, not thirty-five—it was apparent to him that Nanette had no serious challengers on the field. She could do all those tricks and, as the crowd would soon see, much more. Barring unforeseen circumstances, a great deal of money would soon be his.

Tiger Boy walked along a narrow beam between two sawhorses; when asked what two plus two was, he barked four times; and when his owner made a pistol of his thumb and forefinger, the dog fell over, feigning death. Based on the resulting applause, Janis announced he was tied for second place.

She read off of the program, “Last, we have Nanette, trained by Corporal”—and here she choked, but she was a professional, and no one save Lee himself noticed the sudden change in inflection, the veil of control lowering onto her voice—“Lee Duncan. Crescent City, California.”

Lee ambled up toward the platform, dog trotting with him, and then paused. He looked at his wristwatch. “This is going to take about two minutes to get started,” he said to Janis, who nodded.

“Okay, boys, take two minutes to stretch and hoot and holler,” she cried through the megaphone. “Corporal Duncan promises us a good time then.”

Laughter, and calls to begin settling the bets. It was obvious Lee was not a player today. There were some romantic holdouts, the kind who never left a farm auction back home until the final animal was led around the pen, but overall, the stands were aflutter with cash changing hands.

Lee stood silently; he’d become acquainted with patience. He saw Janis staring his way. He caught her eye.

She was a plain woman. All of it—the fame, the wild adulation, the genial welcomes around the camps—came not from her face but from how people imagined it. Without the whoops, without the song in her heart, Janis was pure Ohio plain, she said, when in private and with her chestnut hair down.

“So, Corporal. You still think I’m a sucker?” Janis whispered.