“You’ve never played? It’s easy. You stick the ball in the clown’s mouth and it falls out there.” She pointed down to the numbered columns. “Add them up at the end, highest total wins.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Ryan gathered up a handful of Ping-Pong balls and began studying the clown’s head as it swiveled back and forth. “Sounds a little rudimentary, but all right.”

“By all means, show me how it’s done.”

Ryan got off to a good start, with his first attempt landing in the highest-numbered column. Believing he’d already mastered the game, he then timed his next roll and waited for the clown’s head to turn back into the same position, except this produced a completely different result—the ball rolled into the 1 column. He gave Amy a sideways look.

“This game is rigged.”

Amy, meanwhile, was employing a different strategy and shoving balls into the clown’s mouth as fast as she could. “You’re overthinking it.”

“No, I’m putting it in at the exact same spot.” He tried again, and again, and again, but each time the ball tumbled out into a completely different row.

“Not kidding, there’s been some serious tampering going on here.” He held up one of the balls to the light. “Are you sure they don’t put weights in these things or something?”

Amy made a noise, which was intended to sound like a laugh but instead came out more like a snort. “I’m not sure what the right etiquette is, but don’t you normally wait until after the game is finished before you start making excuses?”

“True,” he said, smirking as he lined up his last two balls. “Not another word, then.”

It was Amy’s scattergun approach that sealed her victory. There was a witty suggestion from Ryan that they go best of three, but she wasn’t interested. Besides, all this excitement was making her hungry.

“Dream on, cowboy. If I remember the terms of our deal, you’re the one who’s buying!”

“And it was a well-earned victory too. You’re a formidable opponent. Come on, follow me.”

Ordering food meant lining up at one of the caravans parked along the fringe of the square. The lines were long and they must have been waiting for fifteen minutes before progressing far enough to get a glimpse of the garishly bright menu board. Choices were limited to the usual festival fare: burgers, curly fries, corn dogs, funnel cakes, and cotton candy.

“Do you know what you’re getting?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.” He pointed straight to a giant yellow star that, in red lettering, screamed the words SEABROOK’S FAMOUS DEEP-FRIED SURPRISE. “I think you should try one.”

“What’s in it?”

“That’s the surprise.”

“But it’s deep-fried, so it’ll be chicken or fish or something, right?”

“Not quite.”

“What, then?”