Twelve years old and standing in the dirt outside a circus tent, smoking a cigarette. You started bumming them off the acrobat's daughter last year, and father has indicated that he doesn't care if you smoke them so long as you only smoke them few and far between. He doesn't want you addicted, kukolka moya, but he started smoking at eight, so who is he to stop you?
You're barefoot, in a long black shift that flutters around your ankles in the brisk wind. You're out on the prairie somewhere, one of those odd places where the land looks the same way it did a hundred years ago. There is music flowing out from the tent behind you, the show going on, and you've watched it from behind holes in the curtain for so long that you don't need to look to know what part of the show is currently entertaining the audience.
It's a pretty good crowd. Business will be good tonight as the patrons filter out into the line of tents and booths leading up to the big top. They're there for the novelty--there aren't really any real traveling circuses any more, and this far out the only entertainment people can get is the thin fare on their televisions and what comes to the only multiplex for fifty miles. They still have a sense of awe when it comes to the show, and they're also the type to go into her father's tent, on a dare, out of desperation, and have their fortune told.
This far out, people still believe. Once, you saw a woman walk out weeping after your father read her tarot. She was old, and her crumpled face leaked tears. She had to be caught by her middle-aged daughter before she fully collapsed. You watched with a critical eye. One day, you would be able to do that to someone, and the thought made you swell with pride that your father was so good he already could.
There is a rustle in the tent behind you, and large, warm arms wrap around you from behind, squeezing you once before slackening. The two of you stare out over the tall grass. There's only one farmhouse in this direction that you can see, and when you turn your head there's nothing at all. Wasteland, perfect and peaceful.
Time to go get ready, the voice behind you says, low enough that it rumbles through your slight frame. You nod, and he releases you, and you trail behind him, tossing the cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of your shoe. Into your previous calm comes trickles of excitement, anticipation and pleasure. Work time.