I once heard it said that time is a circus, always packing up and moving away.

That was true, in many ways, and I was more than qualified to comment—I'd experienced more packing up and moving away in seventeen years than most people would in their entire lives.

And yet, the saying was missing something. It failed to capture the whole story, left out the best part.

Because for there to be packing up and moving away, there first had to be pulling up and unloading. There had to be the pitching of trailers, the cranking of rusty metal, the hauling of ropes until the colors of the big top sailed among the clouds. Then came the clinking of change as coins exchanged hands, and the buzz of speculation that preceded the first show. It all came before.

And as someone who'd lived, breathed, and slept this cycle for as long as she could remember, that was always my favorite part.

At first, Sherwood, California, was just another brief stop on our never-ending road trip: another thumbtack on the giant map of the United States pinned to the wall of Aunt Shelby's trailer. The map had been there for as long as I could remember, and over its lifetime had collected such an abundance of pins that the entire American landscape had been severely butchered. I wasn't sure exactly how the ritual got started; all I knew was that each time we pulled up in a new field, the first job of the day was to stab a permanent hole in our new location, and the pin would sit there long after we'd gone.

The map proved we were no strangers to the area. The small town of Sherwood may have been new to us, but the dense collection of pins on the Northern California coastline told the stories of years past. We'd pretty much circled the area over and over. There was the whole country to choose from, but the crew could never resist the pull of the sun and the sea—and I guess I couldn't blame them.

Whenever we pitched up somewhere new, the events that followed were a strange yet predictable mix. Of course, there was the communal atmosphere: nervous energy fueling frantic conversation about openings and finales; the creaking of equipment in last-minute training sessions; long-awaited showers, now that we were finally hooked up to a water supply. On top of this, though, I had a ritual of my own.

In some sense, it was like the map on Aunt Shelby's wall. I couldn't pinpoint exactly when or how it had started, but it'd become a habit all the same. And so, hours after we'd piled into our home for the next few days, when the other guys realized I was nowhere to be found, they always knew where I'd gone.

I wasn't exactly superstitious, so I struggled to find an explanation for why the food in the first restaurant I came across always foreshadowed the fate of that evening's show. The theory wasn't strictly tried and tested, but it had yet to be proven wrong. Take for example Somerton, Idaho: after leaving the restaurant halfway through my nauseatingly undercooked meal, ticket sales for opening night hit an all-time low, and the evening was a total flop.

Good food, good show; bad food, bad show. And everything in the middle. It was just the way things worked.

Joe's was a small, fifties-themed diner that sat on a corner a few streets away from our pitch. Its blinking red sign looked close to giving out altogether, the J only illuminated in sporadic bursts, and the parking lot was almost empty. It neither attracted attention nor looked like it intended to. And since it was the first food outlet I'd come across—Rule Number One of my system—it would also be my first taste of Sherwood.

A bell tinkled overhead as I passed through the door, and my sneakers squeaked on polished tile. The counter was dotted with a long row of mismatched bar stools, while worn leather booths lined the opposite wall. A waitress in a long pink skirt and faded apron leaned against the counter. As I gave the diner the once over, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd stepped through a miniature window to the fifties, where everything had been compressed and condensed into a tiny space.

Then again, that was hardly unfamiliar; I'd lived in a trailer almost my entire life.

I took a seat on one of the stools, briefly glancing at the guy next to me, who was staring down at a textbook while chomping down on a burger. He looked about my age, but that was all I gathered before I grabbed a menu and let my eyes skim over the laminated card.

The list was endless. What Joe's lacked in inspiring décor it more than made up for in culinary variety; in front of me was a choice of every burger I could imagine, plus twenty more—and that was without getting started on the sides or milk shakes. The owner had written an entire novel of options, and the sheer volume of possibilities left me stumped.

But even faced with such an overwhelming decision, I still didn't expect the stranger beside me to speak up and offer a helping hand. "Don't even think about leaving this place without trying the curly fries."

I blinked, not sure if the voice was directed at me. It was only when I looked over that I saw the guy had looked up from his text- book. "Excuse me?"

Presented with an excuse to study his face, I was able to make a better assessment of my unexpected companion. He was fair, his milky complexion lightened by the overhead spotlights, with a head of blond hair that somehow managed to appear both neat and messy at the same time. It was ruffled, but in a way that looked calculated and entirely intentional—and as a half smile curled his lip, I noticed there was an impossible symmetry about that too. Overall, he was so polished I was sure he'd gleam in the sun.

"Sorry." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm butting in. But you looked like you were on the brink of a decision, and I couldn't let you escape without at least tasting the curly fries. They're legendary. Ask anybody."

His eyes flickered around the room, like I might do just that, instead of staring blankly back at him.

"I'll let you get back to deciding," he said when I still hadn't given him any kind of response. "It's a pretty intense choice, anyway. Just . . . bear that in mind about the curly fries, okay? You're not in Sherwood if you don't eat Joe's fries."

He went to return to his book and his plate, which I now realized was piled with a hearty serving of those very fries. But my voice made him pause. "What's so special about them?"

He grinned. "Order them and see."

So, seconds later, I slapped down the menu, caught the attention of the waitress hovering by the milk-shake machine, and placed an order for, and I quote, "Exactly what he's having."

The guy, looking incredibly pleased with himself, seemed to have forgotten about his book altogether. "You're not from around here, are you?"

I raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you say that?"

"Oh, it's easy. There's nobody in Sherwood who hasn't heard of Joe's curly fries. Like I said, they're a local legend."

"You're building up pretty high expectations here," I told him. "If they're not totally out of this world, I'm going to be severely disappointed."

But his confidence didn't waver. "They are," he said. "And I'd like to officially take responsibility for being the person who introduced you to them and therefore changed your life forever. Hi, I'm Luke."

The smile that crept onto my face was unstoppable. "Corey."

"So, Corey. What brings you to Sherwood?"

It was the question I'd been waiting for. Although conscious not to brag, I'd always secretly reveled in telling people about the way I lived. I relished the moment I transformed in their eyes, transitioning from the ordinary girl in front of them to the mysterious performer I got to be in the ring. A trapeze artist, I'd tell them. And there was the image, already dancing across their minds, of poise and elegance and everything that the most talented performers embodied. On the trapeze I became an enhanced version of myself, something far beyond what came across in person.

Trapeze was beautiful, and I was beautiful by association.

Not everybody shared such a positive view. Small towns especially didn't always give the warmest of welcomes, and I'd grown used to wary looks and judgmental whispers. But that was the beauty of life on the road—we didn't have to stick around to deal with it. As soon as trouble flared, we were already packing up and dismantling, taking to the road before it could touch us.

Life on the move was easy. It was being stuck in one place that made things complicated.

"The circus is in town," I said, "and I came along with it."

It came in perfect sequence: surprise, disbelief . . . but then, something else? I could've sworn I saw it in his expression—an impression beyond the words that had come out of my mouth. But it didn't linger, and soon enough I caught the curiosity I'd been expecting. "You're in the circus?"

"Yeah. Trapeze artist in training."

"Whoa." He exhaled. "That's pretty cool. Cooler than any of my local Sherwood knowledge I was going to try and impress you with, anyway."

I couldn't stop myself from laughing. "Sorry. I could pretend to be impressed, if that will protect your ego?"

He sighed dramatically. "No, it's fine. I'll suck it up and accept the fact that I've been majorly upstaged by a supercool trapeze artist."

"I'm sorry. I tend to have that effect on people."

I was grinning, and he was too.

By the time the waitress returned, with my order balanced precariously on her tray, we were deep in conversation about how I avoided falling to my death while hanging from the ceiling on a flimsy bit of rope. Whatever Luke had been studying was now utterly disregarded, his textbook closed and shoved aside to make room for his elbow on the counter. He was fascinated by trapeze, and I could talk for hours about it—really, it was a lethal combination. But his attention was diverted once the plate of curly fries was set in front of me.

"Seriously, prepare yourself," he said as I spun back around on the stool to face my plate. "You're about to have a life-altering experience."

"You are way too emotionally involved," I told him, rolling my eyes. "They're just fries."

He scoffed. "Yeah, okay. Let's see if you've still got that attitude in thirty seconds. Come on, eat."

Smiling at the way he was jabbing his finger at my plate, I did as he said. It was mostly down to curiosity. If the fries really were a local legend, it was my duty to try them, especially on my first day in Sherwood. And though I doubted they would be—as he so confidently put it—legendary, I dunked my first into a dollop of ketchup and stuck it into my mouth anyway.

In that moment, I found myself well and truly proven wrong.

Whatever I'd bitten into, it tasted suspiciously like heaven. Heaven covered in ketchup. Whether Joe's was spiking its fries with some seriously addictive substance, I wasn't sure, but they tasted insane.

And Luke knew it.

"Didn't I tell you?" He smirked once I'd swallowed the first mouthful and wasted no time diving for a second. "Legendary."

"Okay, okay. You were right."

"Obviously. You see, you might be a fancy circus performer jet- ting off to every corner of the country, but nobody knows Sherwood and its curly fries like I do."

It took hardly any time at all for me to inhale the entire serving, though I knew Silver would be pissed if she discovered I was straying from her carefully constructed diet. Nevertheless, it wasn't enough to stop Luke from persuading me to stay for a round of milk shakes, which extended my visit by another forty-five minutes. I had to get back soon, because a full dress rehearsal was mandatory before opening night, and the crew would get agitated if I wasn't back in time. And though this had been lingering in the back of my mind for the entire meal, it had been surprisingly easy to ignore when talking to Luke.

When the Elvis-themed clock on the wall hit three thirty, I knew I was really pushing it. As much as I'd have liked to stay and skip rehearsal altogether—if the fries were anything to go by, we were in for an incredible opening night—I didn't dare. The circus was my entire livelihood, and therefore never worth the risk. We may have thrived on danger, even making a living from it, but outside the circus everything had to be played safe. Taking too many chances was a potentially deadly mistake.

"I'm sorry, I really have to go," I told Luke, already gathering my stuff.

I jumped off the stool, moving to tie my jacket around my waist, when a sudden gasp from behind the counter caused me to jolt. Instinctively, my head turned to where the waitress was standing, catching sight of her just as the stack of plates slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with an earsplitting shatter.

The diner was plunged into silence, which only emphasized the sudden pounding of my adrenaline-fueled heart.

"Oh my God," the waitress said aloud to everyone who was now looking. "I am so sorry about that. Carry on, carry on."

She was already hurrying forward, reaching for the broom at the other end of the counter. Luke caught her eye as she brushed past us, fixated on cleaning up the pile of broken china. "Do you need any help?"

"Oh, God, sweetie, no," she said, shaking her head. "Don't you worry about this. Just me being clumsy, that's all."

She did seem to have it covered, and as I turned back to Luke, it occurred to me that I was standing. Before the interruption, I'd been about to make my exit.

"You're really going already?"

"Afraid so," I said, hitching my bag onto my shoulder. "We supercool trapeze artists are on a tight schedule. Especially super- cool trapeze artists who are still in training. Silver won't be happy if I'm late."

"Silver?"

"She's, uh . . . my mentor, I suppose. Lead trapeze. She taught me everything I know, but she likes things done right. Absolutely no slacking."

He smiled sympathetically. "I know how that feels."

"Yeah, well. It's tough, but it has to be done. I wouldn't have got where I am today without her."

He was still smiling, but behind it was something I couldn't quite put my finger on. At first, it seemed to mimic contentment, like he would be happy to freeze the moment and live in this win- dow of conversation forever. But there was something else lurking among the curiosity and awe and amusement—something, if I hadn't known better, that appeared almost melancholy. His eyes spoke volumes, but in a language I couldn't understand.

I shook it off quickly. "Like I said, I better be going."

"Wait," he said. "Are you just going to tell me all this stuff about you and not even invite me along to see you in action?"

The smirk crept back, materializing on my face before he'd even finished the sentence. "Are you saying you want to come along?"

"I wouldn't say no if you asked."

"Well, I'm not going to ask." I waited for the flash of disappoint- ment across his face, barely visible, before I continued. "How about I just give you this instead?"

I fished in my bag, fumbling until my fingers enclosed a piece of glossy paper. I wasn't usually a walking advertisement for Cirque Mystique; it was a stroke of luck that Aunt Shelby had printed too many flyers, landing me with a pile before we'd left the last town. She'd told me to pin one up if I came across a good spot. As I handed it over, I realized I was probably preaching to the converted.

"We're here for the next two weeks," I told him. "The show starts tonight at seven. Maybe I'll see you there."

"Maybe you will." He folded the flyer in half and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. "I'm intrigued."

"As you should be. How often is it that the circus and its super- cool performers rock up in this little town?" I grinned. "Bye, Luke. I'll see you around."

It was only once I'd started across the restaurant and was close enough to the door to reach for the handle, that I heard his voice. It was quiet, not bold enough to attract the attention of any other diners in the vicinity, who remained absorbed in their daily papers and cups of coffee, letting their surroundings become a blur that continued without their attention. "Good luck tonight, Corey."

It was a simple gesture of politeness, something I'd heard many times before, and was likely to hear just as many in the future. It was thrown back and forth countless times between cast members in the lead-up to every show, a safety net to make up for the lack of one in the ring. From Luke it was no different—soft and comforting, but not something I thought I'd desperately be needing.

I was wrong, but I didn't know that then, as I shot him a grateful smile over my shoulder, stepped out into the California sunshine, and set off down the street with my bag relieved of the insignificant weight of one flyer.

Good luck tonight, Corey.

Four simple words, unfamiliar by no means.

I didn't know that hours later I would be clinging to them, gripping the string of letters like they were my last hope.