"Where're you from?" she asked.
"A farm," he said.
"Run away?"
"No. Sent to trade."
"You going back?"
He hesitated.
"I don't know."
Rosy didn't press. She talked instead about the crew: the knife thrower who never missed, the bearded
woman who read fortunes but only for chickens, the acrobat sisters who practiced with bloodied knees and
never complained. Everyone had a job. Everyone belonged.
Jack felt something bloom inside him—small and fragile.
That night, he sat with the others around the cookfire. He watched the man in the coat—Morrow himself, it
turned out—tell stories in a booming voice. Nothing magical. No illusions. Just wit, charisma, and timing.
"You've got eyes like a watcher," Rosy told Jack, nudging him.
"What does that mean?"
"You pay attention. People like that can learn fast."
"Learn what?"
She smiled. "Whatever you want."
Before dawn the next morning, Jack was awake and standing near the stables when Morrow passed by.
"Did you sleep at all?" the man asked.
Jack shook his head. "I'd like to help."
Morrow studied him. "You're a farm boy?"
Jack nodded.
"You'll work harder than the rich ones then. You break anything, you fix it. You get in the way, you get out
twice as fast. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Morrow gestured to the far end of the camp. "Go see Carla. She'll have your arms sore by midday."
Jack did.
By the end of the day, he'd helped lift poles, tied ropes, scrubbed a horse, and even managed to carry a
water barrel without spilling half of it. The other workers didn't praise him, but they didn't send him away
either.
And that night, as the tents lit up and laughter carried into the cool air, Jack stood behind the curtain and
watched the show unfold with wide, silent eyes.
He'd never felt so close to something alive.