Chapter 1
He’s just twelve years old when he realizes the sky has gone dark, people are trickling out of the circus fields, and looks of unbridled pity and confusion brand him as he calls out Mom? He’s just under 5 feet tall, his last baby tooth wiggling somewhere in his mouth, and his voice barely traveling through the thick herd of people.
And when a strong arm pulls him out from the stampede of normal, complete families, Clinton Francis Barton immediately understands that he’s no longer a member of those normal, complete families, but of an abnormal, incomplete one.
“Listen to me, Franny!”
That’s Barney. Barney, his older brother. He calls Clint “Franny,” says having a sophisticated name like Francis isn’t something to be ashamed of. He has a point, considering his own name is actually Charles Bernard Barton.
“Mom left us. So did dad. It’s just us now, okay?”
He’s not quite sure what that means immediately; of course they left, they had to go home to eat and sleep anyway, right? It is kind of weird that they’d leave him and Barney, but anywho, Barney’s smart. Barney can read the room quicker than anyone Clint knows. One day, Clint wants to be like Barney when he grows up.
“Look, we need a place to stay, even if it’s just for the night. Stay here and don’t move a muscle until I get back, Franny,” Barney orders, pointing a commanding finger. Then he’s off, jogging back towards the forest of red and white striped tents.
Clint’s always been patient; obedient, not so much, but being patient never hurt anyone. So he waits.
The circus field empties out slowly, leaving behind the scattered remains of a night well spent — discarded popcorn buckets, forgotten scarves, a lost shoe that doesn’t belong to him. The wind picks up, rattling the tent flaps, and Clint shivers.
Barney will be back soon. He promised.
But the minutes stretch, the air growing colder as the last of the carnival lights flicker out. The world beyond the circus is too quiet, too dark, and it doesn’t feel like home anymore. His stomach twists, empty and uncertain.
Barney always says that their parents love them, even when they yell. Even when they leave. Even when Dad comes home smelling sharp and dangerous, voice like a thunderstorm.
But they’re not coming back.
A lump rises in Clint’s throat, and he swallows hard. He’s not gonna cry. He’s not.
Footsteps crunch against the dirt, and Clint straightens, hopeful.
But it’s not Barney.
It’s one of the performers — a tall man with broad shoulders and a wiry frame, his silhouette sharp against the dim glow of the last remaining bulbs. He doesn’t look surprised to see Clint, just… resigned.
“Barton kid, right?”
Clint hesitates but nods.
The man sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figures. Your brother’s got a mouth on him. Nearly got himself knocked out trying to swipe some food.”
Clint stiffens. “Is he okay?”
The man waves a hand. “He’s fine. Lucky for him, he’s got fast hands. Faster feet.” His gaze settles on Clint, weighing something. “Come on, then. You’re sleeping here tonight.”
Clint doesn’t move. His mom always told him not to trust or follow strangers.
But this man doesn’t feel like a stranger — not really. He’s one of them, a part of the circus, the only world Clint’s ever felt alive.
And Barney would come for him. He always does.
So Clint stands, brushing dirt off his too-big jacket, and follows the man into the shadows of the tents.
It’s the first night of the rest of his life.
Clint follows, his worn out shoes dragging against the dirt, his stomach a hollow pit that grumbles in protest. The man — he doesn’t know his name yet — doesn’t talk much, just glances back every now and then to make sure Clint’s still behind him.
They weave through the maze of darkened tents, past the wagons and trailers where the real circus people live, past the empty animal enclosures and the towering riggings Clint always imagined himself swinging from one day. The air smells like sawdust and stale popcorn, but the magic of the place — the bright lights, the laughter, the sense of belonging — has faded.
Eventually, they stop in front of a smaller tent, tucked behind the larger performance ones. The man pulls back the flap and gestures inside.
“Get in.”
Clint hesitates, shifting on his heels. “What about Barney?”
“He’ll find you,” The man says, too sure, like he’s seen it happen before. Maybe he has.
Clint swallows hard and steps inside.
It’s warmer in here, the scent of sweat and old fabric thick in the air. A few cots are scattered around, some already occupied by kids older than Clint but younger than adults. They don’t look up when he enters, used to the sight of another stray finding his way in.
“Pick a spot,” The man says, then turns to leave.
“Wait,” Clint blurts out, voice smaller than he wants it to be. “What’s your name?”
Now the other kids do look up, as if Clint just crossed an unspoken line. Clint can feel their eyes on him, glancing back and forth between him and the man Clint presumes he wasn’t supposed to outright address like he was just some other kid on the playground.
The man stops, considering. “Jacques.” A pause, followed by a tilt of his head. “You’ll call me Mister Duquesne.”
Then he’s gone, the tent flap swinging shut behind him.
Clint doesn’t know what to make of the name, doesn’t know what to make of any of this. But his body moves on instinct, too exhausted to do anything else. He finds an empty cot, sits down, and pulls his knees to his chest.
He waits.
Time stretches in the dark. Someone snores. Someone else mutters in their sleep. The canvas walls flutter with the wind.
And then—
A scuffle outside, muffled voices, the crunch of footsteps against the dirt.
The tent flap lifts, and Barney stumbles inside. His lip is split, his cheek darkening with a fresh bruise, but he grins when he spots Clint. “Told you to stay put, Franny.”
Relief crashes over Clint so hard he nearly topples forward. “I did.”
Barney snorts. “For once.”
He sits beside Clint on the cot, exhaling as he leans back against the tent pole. He smells like sweat and smoke, like the night itself.
“They give you a hard time?” Barney asks after a moment.
Clint shakes his head. “You?”
Barney shrugs, which means yes. It’s an obvious answer, really, considering the split lip and rapidly blooming bruise across his cheek. But Barney doesn’t complain. He never does.
“What now?” Clint asks, because Barney always knows what to do next.
His brother is quiet for a long time. Then: “We make ourselves useful.”
Clint frowns. “How?”
Barney looks around the tent, at the sleeping kids, at the worn-out cots and the scraps of personal belongings tucked into corners. He tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling like he’s reading something written in the fabric.
“We learn,” He finally says. “We watch. We listen. We prove we belong here. That we can stay.”
Clint doesn’t fully understand, but he’s a fast learner, so he nods anyway.
And as the night presses in around them, as his brother’s breathing evens out beside him, Clint thinks that maybe — just maybe — this is where they’re supposed to be.
For now.
Tomorrow, they’ll figure out the rest.