Page 5

Guitar lessons. A lost tabby. A church potluck. Someone selling a treadmill they claim they’ve used twice.

Under all of it, pinned by a single red thumbtack, hangs a sheet of black paper with a border the color of dried blood.

SEVEN SINS CARNIVAL

Every town has its sins. Come confess yours.

Below that, a pen-and-ink drawing of a man in a long coat, mid-throw, one hand cocked at the shoulder. A dozen blades hang around him in the air like a halo of glass. His face is half in shadow, but I can make out the grin.

THE KNIFE THROWER

Cole Pike. Seven nights. No net.

And at the bottom, in a smaller font:

Now auditioning catchers. Experience required. Nerves preferred but not necessary.

Do not flinch.

The dryer buzzes behind me. I don’t turn around.

I look at the drawing again, and my palm aches along the old scar, a dull, familiar pull.

Nerves preferred but not necessary.

I pull out the thumbtack. The paper comes free, and I fold it in thirds and slide it into my pocket.

I don’t flinch.’

It’s the only résumé I’ve got.

1

COLE

The fifth candidate of the morning leaves the Big Top at a jog, and I flip a paring knife end over end until the tent flap stops swaying.

“He flinched when I sneezed,” I say.

Elias rolls his eyes. “You sneezed on purpose.”

“I sneezed with intent. Different thing.” I catch the knife by the blade and point the handle at the empty chair across the desk. “Look, I’m saying what I’ve said all week. I don’t need a catcher. Seven nights, just me and my knives, and the crowd still loses its mind. Do you know what a catcher is? A second person the audience has to look at. I’m the show. I am the sin. Greed, wrath, whatever you like.”

“You’re lust,” he murmurs.

“I contain multitudes.”

Elias leans back in his chair, gloved fingers steepled, the ruby tip of his cane resting against his knee. He hasn’t looked up from the folder in front of him for ten minutes. He wears the wedding band over the glove, which is a Jules move if I’ve ever seen one, and I’ve officiated the damn thing, so I’d know.

“You have a broken wrist waiting to happen,” he says. “Two winters ago you threw for four hours on a sprained thumb.”

“And it was glorious.”

“It was stupid.” He turns a page. “I need you to cut back on the daily shows, or you’ll be doing them in a cast.”

“Then get me a target. A wheel. A guy. Deke has the right kind of face for it.”

“Deke would kill you in your sleep.”