Page 29

The Big Top

As darkness lifts, Marsh finds herself standing inside of a giant red-and-white-striped tent, wearing a glittering gold leotard and stage makeup. Spotlights swing near, plunging everything from dark to light to dark again, and the roar of a crowd all around rushes her ears.

“Marsh, there you are!” Talia cries over the drone, waving. She’s in a black top hat, a blue, festooned coat with tails, and bright crimson pants. “You’re up next!”

Marsh looks down at her leotard again, baffled, but then the giant poster hanging behind her finally comes into focus.

WELCOME TO THE BIG TOP!

LAS VEGAS HOSTS THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH!

“A circus. I ran away and joined an actual circus in this episode,” Marsh says to Talia, smiling at the joke. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

Talia winks at her. “It’s a stereotype for a reason,” she replies before spinning back to the crowd, to announce the next act. “You have to admit, it’s pretty fun, isn’t it?”

It is.

Marsh discovers that she’s an acrobat now, as she nimbly flips and twists through the air across trapezes and trampolines. She enjoyed her total makeover, but this is downright thrilling, to be strong enough now to whip around like she has wings. How can I be this flexible at forty-five? she wonders as she executes a quadruple backflip that makes even her jaw drop along with her audience’s own. Maybe she’s just that in shape. Or maybe she’s not forty-five anymore.

Who even cares?

Her routine is stunning. When she lands from her last twirl off the trapeze—which the Bubble rewinds and does twice for her, sensing that she wants the spin even tighter, even more impressive—the crowd gives her a standing ovation so loud, she can feel her teeth vibrating in her smile. And the rest of the performers are just as impressive. Talia is the ringleader, of course, Victor and Jo are the clowns, Harper is a tightrope walker, and Ren is the lion tamer.

Marsh watches him run around the ring shirtless, his muscles glistening with sweat, bravely commanding the roaring beast this way and that with nothing more than confident posture and a sweep of his hand. He’s darkly tanned in this episode, with long, curly hair that’s been bleached blond for some inexplicable reason, but his butt has never looked better than it does now in his little red-and-blue spandex costume. He’s also less talkative than he has been before, Marsh notices, although no less happy to be with her. So happy he seems the opposite, somehow—so desperately joyful that he can’t control it. He looks maniacal in the ring, like he’d almost prefer it if the lion turned on him, and they could wrestle to the death.

The only thing constant about Ren is that he’s always different, Marsh thinks as he and the lion play patty-cake as they each stand on one foot. It’s nearly too much for her to keep all his versions straight. She can’t imagine how confusing it would be for Ren if he could remember each of his incarnations.

The flaming hoops come out next, and despite the excitement, Marsh’s attention wanders to the dark recesses of the big tent, to see what other acts are up next. It’s dark and cramped, but she can make out a few silhouettes. There’s a ribbon dancer, a man on tall stilts, a fortune teller...

Zauberfee: Ich liebe den Zirkus!

SharpTruth104: I’m begging you all to look at what’s happening to the Bubble!

[Automatic security filters have deleted this account]

StrikeF0rce: How many attempted hacking offenses before this guy gets permanently banned?

SharpTruth105: Screw this

SharpTruth105: ***MARSH!*** If you’re seeing this, look at the fortune teller! LOOK! You—

[Automatic security filters have deleted this account]

The comments continue to harangue the troll who’s now taken Notamackerel’s place as most-hated commentor, but SharpTruth’s panicked, direct request startles Marsh enough to seize her attention.

Has that ever happened before? she wonders.

Her viewers often shout all kinds of encouraging things at her, but it’s always with the understanding that she’ll almost certainly never notice any particular one, not with the millions of posts streaming by every second. But SharpTruth has not only also noticed that something’s off about her season—her Bubble—but is trying to tell her something about it directly now.

Marsh peers across the darkened, crowded tent.

Wait.

It’s hard to tell with so many people in such a small space, but is the fortune teller actually Talia’s lighting tech from season one?

Is that really Jillian?

Her eyes snap back to the comments, but SharpTruth is gone, locked out until they can figure out how to get around the Bubble’s security filters once more.

It doesn’t matter. She’s sure that it’s Jillian—and now, certain that something very strange is going on.

For some reason, part of the old crew is in the Bubble with Marsh.

How did SharpTruth know that?

Who is her mysterious viewer?

SharpTruth106: C:\ATAM\Bubble\episode_8\access

[Automatic security filters have deleted this account]

SharpTruth107: Marsh, I’m trying, but you have to—

[Automatic security filters have deleted this account]

The applause draws her attention back to the main ring in time to see Ren bow and then dash out of the spotlight with the lion as Victor and Jo rush in to take their places.

“You all right tonight?” Ren asks her once he’s out of view of the audience. He tosses his golden locks. “You seem disappointed or something.”

The lion is not in a cage, as Marsh assumed would be legally required, but leaning against Ren like a terrifying pet. Harper squeezes past on her way out of the tent, and dribbles half of her water bottle into a steel bowl on the ground as she goes, which the lion eagerly laps up just like a dog.

Just like one very particular dog, actually, Marsh realizes with a start.

“A little,” she admits. Slowly, she touches lion-Pickle’s mane, and he licks her with a huge, rough tongue. “I enjoyed today, but I just thought it might be... more.”

The circus was indeed a fun diversion, but of course, it’s not the perfect life for her.

The music blasts as the clown segment draws to a close. The curtain rustles again, and a tall man with a reddish beard carrying enough bricks on one shoulder to build a house ducks in and lines up for his strongman act. His arms are tree trunks, like he’s used to twirling dumbbells over his head all day long.

Or holding up a bunch of heavy sound equipment next to Jillian’s lights , Marsh notes with an uneasy squint.

Hello, Charles.

She casts around, scouring the rest of the darkened big top as the next act begins. During Talia’s season, her crew were as close as family. So if Talia’s lighting and sound techs are in the Bubble, then surely their lead camera operator will turn up, too.

Elyse must be here somewhere.

“Well, that’s all right if today was a little disappointing,” Ren finally says to Marsh.

She’s not really listening, she’s still looking for Elyse, and it takes a second for what Ren says next to land.

“The next one will be better.”

The next one.

She turns to him, uneasy. The hairs are standing up on the back of her neck.

What an odd thing to say, she thinks.

Does Ren... know something?

“What do you mean, the next one?” Marsh repeats.

“You know.” Ren shrugs. He gestures to the tent around them. “The next show. We’re in Los Angeles tomorrow.”

Marsh watches him closely—but Ren’s gaze is steady, his expression innocent. He doesn’t know about the show, about the choices.

He’s just trying to cheer her up.

“Great,” she replies at last. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Ren grins. “I hear the audience is very lively!”

After the show is over—the crowds gone, the empty cups and popcorn cleared away, the animals fed and asleep in their transport carriages, Harper in bed, and the tent broken down and rolled up at last—Marsh, Ren, Victor, and Jo gather in the caravan’s main trailer to eat a late meal.

It’s not the circus itself, but this part, all of them relaxing after the hard day of work, that she values most about this path. It’s romantic. Not in an amorous way, but in the poetic sense of the word. It’s just what Marsh, as a kid, imagined running away and joining the circus might be like. Being part of a tight-knit crew, living on the road, staying up late playing cards together at every stop, dazzling crowds, seeing the world. She tweaks the regular lamps to become lanterns with a wink, to make it even more cozy.

“Wait, it’s already ten o’clock!” Jo shouts suddenly, lurching to her feet. “We’re late!”

“Late for what?” Ren asks her. “The show’s over.”

“The bar!” she cries, banging into the table and sending the cards fluttering. “We’re going to miss our reservation!”

The dread that Marsh feels this time isn’t sudden, but subtle, sinking.

Jo means the Chrysalis bar.

“We have to go!” Victor demands, and then parrots himself yet again. “What good is a private table on the balcony if you never use it?”

“What are they talking about?” Ren asks.

“They’re not talking about anything,” Marsh insists. “There’s no reservation.”

“What am I even wearing?” Jo asks, looking down at her sweatpants and tank top. “I can’t go out like this.”

“There’s no bar,” Marsh says, but Jo and Victor don’t hear her. The two of them seem so confused, so unmoored, as they pace the trailer uselessly, trying to figure out why they want to go to a place that doesn’t exist in this path, to celebrate something that never happened anymore.

Marsh can’t deny it any longer. The farther into the season she gets, the more unstable things grow. Breaks in continuity, fragments of memories left over in her cast members, old pathways encroaching on new ones.

She can even run away to join the circus, and Chrysalis will still find her.

“You look great, Jo,” Marsh finally says, her voice softer this time, sadder.

Jo looks up at her friend, her throat tight, as she clutches her baggy shirt in her hands like she’s never seen it before.

“Marsh,” she whimpers. “I just, I don’t...”

“All right, I think someone’s had a little too much,” Ren comes to the rescue, seizing her beer from her good-naturedly. “Let’s call it a night. We’ve got a long drive to LA tomorrow.”

“Come on, Jo,” Victor says, seemingly back to his usual self. “I’ll walk you to your trailer.”

Marsh waves them all out and says she’ll clean up before bed. But after she’s alone, she doesn’t collect the cards or gather up the dirty plates.

Instead, she slips out of the main trailer and heads for one of the smaller ones, in the opposite direction of her and Ren’s cabin. She hesitates, then pulls her hoodie tighter around her and knocks.

“Yes?” the fortune teller says as she slowly opens the door.

“Jillian, right?” Marsh asks. “Can we talk?”

Inside Jillian’s trailer, the room is set up just like her stage act. The lighting is low and moody, crystal balls adorn every surface, and there’s a velvet blanket draped over a low table. A tarot deck waits at its center. On the back wall, there’s a cheesy poster from a past show with bright colors and a cursive font that reads: JILLAXTRICA, THE ALL-SEEING ONE!

“Do you want a reading?” Jillian asks.

“No,” Marsh says. “I mean, maybe. I just have one question.”

“Ah.” Jillian nods. “Love. The cards will tell us.”

Marsh shakes her head. “Not love.”

Jillian arches a brow, and her giant teal turban shifts slightly. “Money?”

Marsh takes a breath.

Here we go, she thinks.

“Chrysalis,” she says.

She waits for a reaction. Jillian doesn’t move at first—but then the word seems to do something to her, like magic, the way it did for Alexis. Jillian blinks, and when she opens her eyes again, she seems different.

“You can keep running,” she finally says, lucid for the first time. “But you won’t find Chrysalis that way.”

Marsh takes Jillian by the shoulders. “What?” she asks. “What did you say?”

Jillian glances around the trailer like prey in a snare. “What is this place?” she whispers, awestruck, horrified.

“What is Chrysalis?” Marsh asks, ignoring her question. In this episode, it’s the memory of a bar again, but Marsh knows that’s just theater now. Chrysalis has worn a hundred disguises since the season started.

Jillian shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know.”

She drops her voice.

“But it’s not part of your season.”

Marsh falters.

Not part of her season?

She doesn’t know what to make of that. How could something happening in her own Bubble not be part of her season?

How else did it get inside, then?

But Talia’s lighting tech is fading. Her gaze is growing vaguer by the moment, her focus loosening, the distance growing.

“Jillian,” Marsh says, trying to draw her back.

“It’s Jillaxtrica, the All-Seeing One, my dear child,” Jillian says suddenly in her stage voice, and pulls her sequined sleeve dramatically across her face like a cape. Whatever clarity she had, it’s gone now. Marsh has lost her again, back into her role, a puppet whose strings are pulled taut once more. “Are you ready to see your fate in the cards?”

“No,” Marsh says. “I... already have.”

Ren is asleep when Marsh finally comes inside. She keeps the lights off and crawls into bed quietly, and in his slumber, he throws an arm over her with a satisfied snore.

She tries to relax into his embrace. But hours later, her eyes are still open, still fixed on the same spot of their low ceiling.

Finally, after midnight, she sits up.

Her heart is racing so fast, she’s afraid it’ll wake Ren.

Of course.

In the dark, her hands find a T-shirt, then jeans.

She can’t believe it took her this long to realize it, but she’s so glad she did.

She knows what to do.

SharpTruth217: Marsh, the desk

[Automatic security filters have deleted this account]

Her gaze leaps to the little table bolted to the wall. A set of car keys is now waiting there.

SharpTruth218: It’s all I can do right now

[Automatic security filters have deleted this account]

Her hands shaking, Marsh grabs them before they can disappear. There’s no time to think. As quietly as she can, she slips out of the trailer and creeps out to the parking lot, where she climbs into the sedan whose lights flash against the dark when she presses the UNLOCK button on the little fob. The engine rumbles as it starts, and Marsh winces, her breath held—but nothing moves, no one has followed. After a moment, she edges out of the parking lot and onto the street. A few turns later, she’s at the freeway.

But she’s not heading deeper into the gaudy Las Vegas Strip. Those sparkling lights are in her rearview, not in front of her.

There aren’t many people out to begin with, and soon, Marsh is the only car on the road. The freeway turns from urban thoroughfare to bare highway, and then to a single-lane road, leading out into the desert.

Her eyes desperately scan the harsh landscape as it rolls past, flat and parched and shadowed in deep purple beneath the night sky. A rusted highway sign listing the next cities and how many hundreds of miles away they are whizzes by her window, and she grips the wheel harder, determined.

This latest life has placed Marsh closer to Phoenix than she’s been since the second half of the season started.

Closer to Dylan than she’s been since the second half of the season started, to be exact.