Page 68 of The Five Year Lie

My son slowly shakes his head, his eyes unblinking.

“If he has nightmares, I’m blaming you,” I whisper. “Remind me why we’re doing this?”

“Because sword fighting is cool, duh,” he whispers back. “And every time I’ve come to one of these, I see Bryan Zarkey. He has a booth selling weapons.”

“Really? What kind of weapons?” I can barely remember Bryan from his Chime Co. days. But Zain has that guy’s job now. And Zain thinks he might be honest about LiveMatch. Because he doesn’t work there anymore.

“He makes daggers. They’re cool—like something out ofThe Hobbit.”

“Does this crowd have a lot of use for daggers?” I ask.

“Well, duh. You can use them as a letter opener—and you’ll look like a badass while you do it.”

“I will never understand boys.”

Even as I say this, the fighters clash swords again, and the guy with the blue chest plate forces the red guy to stumble backward. And Buzz lets out a surprisingly bloodthirsty roar.

I give Zain a sideways glance, and he laughs. “It’s innocent fun, I swear. Here—have the last cheese puff. You know you want it.”

He isn’t wrong. I’ve already polished off a startling number of them, along with a tasty sausage.

The swordsmen pick up the pace of their fight until they’re whirling and lunging at a furious pitch. Buzz watches with an unhinged jaw, and Zain watches with a boyish smile on his face.

Until one knight finally loses his footing and falls with a crash to the dirt, his sword sliding out of reach.

The other knight looms over him, sword poised, and Buzz’s hand tightens in mine.

“Shall I show you mercy, knave?” the victor demands.

“Mercy,” the other knight begs.

The victor steps back and takes a bow, and Buzz’s small shoulders relax.

“That was very exciting,” I say, patting his head. “Now let’s go meet some armorers.”

“Cool,” Buzz says. “Can we get a fried Oreo?”

“No,” I say at the exact moment that Zain says “Yes.”

Buzz is just finishing his Oreo when we stroll down a double row of vendors. Their wares are hung in a zigzag path, and barkers stand on wooden crates, calling out to potential customers. “Ribbons! Fine lace! Silk from the other side of the world!”

There’s also a stall selling full-sized armor “for battle or for show,” and Buzz stops to admire it. “Mama, can you take my picture?” he asks, touching the chest plate.

“She can’t, because you’re not allowed to carry a phone here,” Zain says.

“Why not?” Buzz demands.

“There weren’t any phones during the Renaissance,” Zain explains. “People had to just experience things in real time. Instead of a picture, you have your memory.”

Buzz looks unconvinced. “But what if you need to call somebody? What if we get lost?”

“We won’t,” Zain says. “And your mom’s phone is just in the car.”

It’s actually in my pocket, because I am not a rule follower. But I keep that to myself. “I don’t see any daggers,” I say as we continue down the row.

“Patience,” Zain says. “He’ll be here. Or else I’m going to have to invite you to a D&D event next week.”

“Jesus Christ.”