The chaos of the coming night is all but shimmering in the air. The evening is full of possibilities, and, despite the warning from the storekeeper, we are eager to realize them. Not many middle worlders make their homes in Lautoka City; the magic here is too thin to sustain them. Middle worlders run on magic created by human lives. Therefore, the more populous a place, the more magic it contains. The middle worlders who do live here, like Josefa, are powerful beings boasting a greater ability to soak up loose magic from the surroundings compared to others.

You might be curious about what draws us back to this humble place, to this humble festival. Is it the scent of sugar in the air that persists no matter how many other smells try to drown it? Or is it the way the lights of the city and the festival push at the darkness that frames heavens heavy with stars?

Yes and no. You see, one of us, Talei, is from Fiji, and Lautoka is the closest she will allow herself to get to home. Her city is on the other side of the island, but she is not yet ready to return to it. So, we come to Lautoka City once in a while so she can taste home in the air, in the night, and in the sense of the wild waiting at the edges of the lights. For now, this is enough for her.

We walk slowly as the island night demands. Humans avoid us without realizing they are doing so. We hear the music long before we see the lights of the festival. The din of excited voices adds to the soundtrack of the night. The smell of meat sizzling on the barbecue grills is acknowledged by the growls in our stomachs. Truth: We do not eat to live. We are sustained by the magic of the Between. Another truth: What is life without food? Our stomachs remember hunger and we indulge them happily.

We enter the festival grounds unseen before appearing in front of the food sellers. We startle them with both our presence and our voracious appetites. We gleefully patronize little booths selling clouds of cotton candy and snow cones in the colors of the rainbow. We play games and win stuffed animals that we pass on to kids who look at us suspiciously before accepting them.

As the hours slip by, the darkness deepens as does our awareness of shadows.

The festival grounds are getting crowded when we return after watching a meke performance by traditional Fijian dancers. Paheli suddenly stops. We recognize her stillness. We follow her gaze and see three men herding a young girl away from the grounds to the back of a stadium located in a cordoned-off area of the park. Their intentions are as obvious as is her terror.