Turnstile: Entrance

Clara looked back. Her mother was gone. The fair was just a fair again: noisy, bright, ordinary.

Clara fed a quarter into the slot. The metal groaned, then clicked. She pressed her hip against the bar and pushed. turnstile entrance

“Just a minute more, sweetheart,” her mother said, voice clear as a bell. “You’re almost here.” Clara looked back

Clara pushed harder. The fairgrounds stretched like taffy. A carousel’s music drifted, slowed, then stopped entirely. The lights began to flicker one by one. Her mother’s image rippled, like a reflection in a pond someone had dropped a stone into. ” her mother said