Page 95 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

“Yes.”

“And they’re extremely valuable?”

“Um…well, no. They’re pretty cheap, actually. We could go to a store and buy a dozen of them for the price of a nice pair of shoes.”

“I amsoconfused.”

“It’s not about the prize,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him as the carnies started eyeing her. “It’s aboutwinning. The prize is proof. A memento? To remember the day? It becomes more valuable because of the good feelings it evokes. Beyond that, people just like to have things sometimes.”

“I think…that might make sense,” she said, strolling alongside him, holding to the strap of his painter’s bag over her shoulder. He’d told her to bring it because sometimes if people knew you were a painter, they treated you with deference. Might convince some carnies to look elsewhere for easy prey.

“I like my clothing,” she said. “The first thing I’ve ever owned. I likehavingit. The dress reminds me of Akane and that day shopping.”

“See?” he said.

For some reason though, she was growing morose. Was she remembering the things Akane had said about him? With a sudden desperation, he wanted her thinking aboutanythingelse. But before he could speak up, she smiled, then spun around, arms extended.

“Your job, Nikaro,” she declared, “is to escort the yoki-hijo on her first—and likely only—trip to a carnival! You must make it anexperience!”

“I thought you said,” he told her, ducking around a couple sharing fluff candy, “we weren’t painter or yoki-hijo tonight.”

“Then you escort just the yoki part! The girl at a carnival for her first time! Present it to me, man from another world. Wow my primitive mind with your advanced alien technology and lights!”

“Well, fortunately,” he said, stepping in front of her and gesturing to himself, “you’ve come to the right person. I’ve been visiting carnivals since I was a child, and I can eagerly introduce you to everyuniqueaspect of the phenomenon.”

“Excellent,” she said, strolling forward, Painter walking backward directly in front of her—occasionally passing right through people. If they thought a lone painter talking to herself was odd…well, they thought painters were odd anyway. So who cared?

“Where do we start?” she asked.

“With the food,” he said, dancing to her right and pointing to a stall with fried pop’ems. “It is the most incredible, delectable,amazingfood you will ever eat—”

“Wow!”

“—for the first bite.”

She looked at him, frowning.

“Carnival food,” he said, “has this strange property. Each bite you take tastes increasingly artificial, oily, and overly sweet. Until you get done, and (lowly) wonder why youateall of that. It’s truly magnificent.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?”

Five minutes later—her fingers sticky with the remnants of powdered sugar, an empty bag of pop’ems in her hand—she looked toward him with a nauseated expression. “That wasawful,” she said.

“Isn’t it?” He grinned.

“I need another.”

He directed her to get some cheese powder rice puffs, as they tended to last a little longer before the gross part reared its head. Once she was happily chewing on them, he led her toward the center of the festivities.

“I’mmodestlyimpressed,” she said. “But you’re going to have to do better than strange foods, Painter.”

“Well, we also have rides.”

She looked at him, then blushed. “I don’t know what those are either. I’m sorry.”

“They’re…” Huh. How to explain. “Have you ever been in a bus—or a wagon I guess—that was out of control?”

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