“Pirate Pete,” I say slowly.

She squawks, as if I’ve said something funny. “Wrong. It’s a sign. It’s wood and plaster and paint. But you don’t see that, and the people who come here don’t see that, either. They see a big old pirate, just like they see prizes and a chance to win something on Green Row, just like they see you in that awful mermaid costume, and for three and a half minutes they let themselves believe that you’re actually a frigging mermaid. All of this”—she turns a circle, sweeping her arms wide, as if to embrace the whole park—“is just mechanics. Science and engineering. Nuts and bolts and gears. And you know it, and I know it, and all the people who come here every single day know it, too. But for just a little while, they forget to know it. They believe. That the ghosts on the Haunted Ship are real. That every problem can be solved with a funnel cake and a song. That that”—she turns and points to the high metal scaffolding of the Gateway, stretching like an arm toward the clouds—“might really be a gateway to heaven.” She turns back to me and suddenly I feel breathless, as if she’s not looking at me but into me, and seeing all the ways I’ve screwed up, all the mistakes I made, and telling me it’s all right, I’m forgiven, I can let go now.

“That’s what magic is, Nick,” she says, her voice soft. “It’s just faith. Who knows?” She smiles, turning back to the Gateway. “Maybe someday we’ll all jump the tracks and lift off straight into the sky.”

“Yeah,” I say. I look where she’s looking; I try to see what she sees. And for a split second I find her, silhouetted by the sky, arms outstretched like she’s making snow angels in the air or simply laughing, turning in place; for a split second, she comes to me as the clouds, the sun, the wind touching my face and telling me that somehow, someday, it will be okay.

And maybe she’s right.