I put my head down and watch my shoes, trying to tune out the bustle. I opt for quieter streets over crowded ones when I can, but it’s impossible to avoid all the tourists, all the people asking for money, and the street performers. I really shouldn’t be surprised when an older man with a dusty top hat and white gloves stops me in my tracks by sticking out the tapered end of his long, lacquer-black cane.

He gestures to a covered table he has set up on the sidewalk.

“No, sorry.” I try to keep going, but he steps in front of me.

His face is painted black and white like a theatre mask: one half of his mouth curls up in a skeletal, Cheshire grin, while the other half turns down in an exaggerated frown. One eye is painted as if it rounds over the hump of a full, smiling cheek, while the other eye droops at the corners like an undercooked egg sliding down his skin. Only…they’re mismatched. The smiling eye is poised over the frowning mouth. And the drooping eye hangs over the curving smile.

If I stare too long, I start to feel disoriented.

His cane is topped with a silver handle in the shape of a raven. He doesn’t look like he has a limp. A small blackboard hangs by a white string around his neck. He reaches into the pocket of his black pants and emerges with a piece of chalk. He writes on the board: Try your luck at a game?

His smile behind the grease paint is friendly, and his thick, arched brows are inquiring. Maybe it’s his muteness that gives me pause, or the way no one else seems to notice him. I feel sorry for him somehow, for his mixed-up face and his sad, little chalkboard. I have time—I did leave early.

He rubs at his board with a gloved hand and writes, What have you got to lose?

I shrug and step over. Anything that can get my mind to stop circling all its unanswered questions is worth a few minutes.

His table is set with three silvery, overturned goblets. “The shell game?” I ask.

He nods happily. His gestures are overblown like most clowns, every expression doing the work of dozens of words. He writes, You know how to play?

“Doesn’t everyone?” I respond.

His grin grows up the sides of his face like a creeping vine. Not like I play it, he writes back.

He places his white-gloved hands atop two of the goblets and begins to spin the cups, weaving them in and out of a complex pattern that gradually speeds up until his hands are a blur my eyes can no longer trace. When he finally stops, he writes, Pick one.

I feel dizzy from watching him. I point to the cup in the middle, which is just like me—always avoiding extremes.