It had been a decade since that fateful night, when years of training and disconnection from humanity had come to a head in what could have been a suicide mission in anyone's hands but his. It was the night when he had sacrificed any hope of a normal life in order to give one to those he loved most. He thought about them often in the intervening years, of the way her rose-hued ringlets cascaded around her worried, but lovely, face in the glow of the porch light; of the way the boy had done as he was told, closing his eyes tight and then throwing himself into his savior's arms once the monster had been vanquished. The boy would be almost a man, by now, his savior little more than a distant memory like the mother and father he had lost all too soon. As long as they were safe, Richard's own happiness was meaningless.

He had been driving since the previous evening, since he had noticed the police car pulling into the motor hotel. Ten years on the run and a few too many close calls had taught him not to wait to find out whether the cops were there for him; he gathered his meager belongings and set off before they could reach his door.

The Nebraska plains stretched before him, a flat expanse of wheat and corn that seemed to laugh in the face of the dust storms that had left Kansas and Oklahoma in ruin. He remembered fondly the days of excess on the boardwalk, and wondered if the economic downturn had hit his old stomping grounds as hard as it had the rest of the country. He had never given much thought to it all—the war had taught him many things, chief among them how to ration and live within his meager means. If Atlantic City and the market crash had been any indication, his fellow man had little grasp of how to follow suit.

He felt his eye droop and knew he should stop soon, but the highway stretched far into the distance with nary an oasis in sight. With one hand, he peeled the mask from his face, rubbing his fingertips over the withered skin of his left cheek. The wound was a constant reminder of his separation, his otherness, but the last fifteen years had depleted any memory of his former visage to the point that he could have been born with half of a face, for all he cared. All that remained was a faded pre-war photograph, pressed into a scrapbook beside a sketch of his post-war appearance. If anything, he was thankful for the injury for giving him a glimpse into the true nature of humankind—he could tell more of a person's character by their reaction to the sight of him than by any feigned attempt at camaraderie.

As the sun crept towards the horizon, he weighed his options. He could continue to drive in hopes of finding a motor hotel in which to rest his head for the night before the drowsiness ran him off the road, or simply drive until his eye rebelled against him and take a brief respite in his trusty old car. Neither sounded as inviting right then as one of Julia's home-cooked meals, or a night in his old bed in Plover with Emma nestled beside him, but he knew better than to dwell on impossible dreams of the past. What he really needed was one night, just one night, where his mind wasn't haunted by memories a decade old. He needed a night off from the past.

The golden lights unfolded before him like a granted wish; nine panels framed by glowing bulbs, beckoning him forward like a beacon in the approaching night. Beyond them, a ferris wheel towered above the plains, spinning gently in the air like a catherine wheel. A carnival, like the flea circus on the boardwalk, would be a perfect respite from his ever-present reality. He felt his trigger finger itching at the thought.

He pulled up in the dusty lot and parked in a jagged line of other coupes, then took a moment to replace the mask snuggly on his aging face. He hoped that, surrounded by circus anomalies, he would attract little attention. With a glance in the rearview mirror, he disembarked his vehicle and joined the throng heading for the alluring carnival lights.

The air around him was thick with children's laughter and the shouts of carnies luring the crowd towards one tent or another. Richard observed all the fair had to offer—a bearded lady, a sword swallower, Siamese twins—but he paid them little mind as he made his way to the only attraction that held any interest to him. He found the shooting gallery with little difficulty, offering his precious change willingly for the feel of the air rifle in his hands. Pop! Pop! Pop! He sent each rotating target careening backwards with ease, letting the calm wash over him and drinking it in. A crowd had gathered by his third round; the carnie's affable smile had long since disappeared as he watched his prizes dissipate. Richard gave each toy to a waiting child, caring little for the spoils of his victories and glad for any reminder of happy days on the boardwalk with his old charge.

He still had plenty of change in his pocket by the time the carnie stopped taking it. "Come on, Mac," he said. "You're makin' us look bad."

Richard hummed in surrender and handed him back the gun. He supposed he should be getting back on the road, but he was still reeling from the high of the carnival game and decided to explore the grounds, instead. The "freaks" (such a distasteful term for what he could only see as kindred spirits) held little appeal, serving as yet another reminder of his otherness. The ferris wheel was for kids and lovers, not lone gunmen trying fruitlessly to blend in. There were years, just after the war, when all he wanted in the world was a sweetheart with which to share such a simple joy as a ferris wheel ride; it was a fantasy long since abandoned.

A gaggle of men drew his attention to one of the tents. Curious, he watched as a lanky man in a jaunty boater perched on the stage before of the tent, bent low towards the gawking assembly and swinging his cane wide before him. Whatever he was shouting was drowned out by the hoots and hollers of the men crowding around him.

"Come all the way in!" the barker cried, drawing out the word "all" as far as three letters could carry him. The men began to push their way inside the tend; Richard was among the stragglers, and he slipped a few coins into the bouncer's waiting hand before finding a spot in the back where he could see what all the fuss was about.

The barker was making introductions in a sing-song shout that made Richard smile. The man was good at his job; the patrons were eating out of his hands. But he had nothing on the buxom blonde who joined him on stage, her swelling breasts nearly popping out of her barely-there dress. Richard felt a pang of guilt for watching her lewd gyrations and ducked out of the tent before the temptress could tease him any further.

As he emerged from the tent, a little boy approached, clutching a sleeve of popcorn in his chubby hands. "Mama, look!" he said, thrusting a finger in Richard's direction.

"Junior, come here!" His mother grabbed him and pulled him away, shooting Richard a reproachful look.

"But I wanna see the tin man!" the little boy whined as he dawdled after his mother, who scolded him harshly.

Embarrassed, Richard ducked between the tents. His flask burned a hole in his pocket and he longed for a dark, secluded spot in which to take a merciful drink. He leaned against a wooden caravan—painted in some garish color that was muted in the darkness—and took a swig, tilting his head back and letting his hand fly unconsciously to the corner of his mouth to catch the drip of bourbon that escaped his uncooperative lips. The amber liquid flowed hot down his throat, filling him with the courage needed to face an unwelcoming world. It amused him how little had changed since Prohibition had become a distant memory; now few could afford a drink, legal or not.

"Hey—"

The voice startled him, and he turned to see a man—little more than a boy, really—approaching him in the darkness.

"Got a light?"

"No," Richard growled. "Sorry."

"No need to be." He patted his pockets and retrieved a single match, which he struck on the side of the caravan until a spark ignited on its tip. He leaned back against wood panelling, smoking his cigarette and staring into the distance.

As they stood in silence, Richard could feel the boy's stare burning a hole through his tin cheek. A voice deep within him nearly yelled out in anger for the stranger to mind his business, but he remained as stoic as ever.

Finally, the boy spoke. "Mind if I have a sip of that?"

Richard handed the flask over. The boy took a long drink, savouring the liquor.

"Thanks. I needed that." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and passed the flask back to its owner, then extended his hand. "I'm Ben."

"Richard." They shook firmly. "Do you. Work here?"

"I'm a roustie."

"Seems like. A decent place. To work."

"Ain't too bad. And I didn't have a lot of options."

Richard nodded and took another labored sip.

"You from 'round here?"

Richard shook his head. "I'm. Travelling."

"How long you been travelling for?"

"Ten. Years."

"Shit. You on the run from the law?"

Richard looked at the ground. "Something like that."

"Hey, you don't have to tell me." Ben lifted his pant leg, revealing a thick band of scarring around his ankle that could only have been caused by thick iron manacles.

They stood in silence for a while longer as the din of the carnival began to recede around them.

"Mind if I ask you a question?" Ben said finally. Richard shook his head. "Why you wearing that mask?"

"My face. Is. Disconcerting. To people."

"No offense to people, but who gives a shit what they think?"

Richard laughed in spite of himself. Something about this boy drew him in; he found himself trusting him more than he'd trusted anyone in years. Slowly, and without a word, he began to remove the mask.

Ben flinched at the sight of him, but more out of empathy than disgust—Richard could always tell the difference. "Jesus, what the hell did that to you?" he exclaimed.

"I. Stuck my nose. Where it didn't. Belong."

This time, it was Ben who laughed. "I like you, Richard." He lit another cigarette on the end of the first while Richard helped himself to another swig from his flask. "Say," Ben said softly, "you ever wondered what you might look like with the rest of your face back?"

"Excuse. Me?"

"I'm just sayin'. Can't be easy for you. Hell, life's hard enough for the rest of us without...you know. What do you do for work, with a face like that?"

"I used to. Work. Security."

"And you don't anymore?"

"That was. A long time ago."

He needn't say more. Ben nodded and stomped out his cigarette. "Listen, I gotta get back," he said, "but tell you what—there's a pond about five miles east of here. We passed it on the highway on the way in. Can't miss it. You meet me there tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock?"

"What's. At the pond?"

Ben laughed as he walked off towards the tents, his limp pronounced. "You'll see."

He reached the pond early, having spent the night in his car on the shoulder of the highway. The sun had coaxed him awake, and he'd rummaged through his satchel for a few scraps of food. His appetite was hardly sated, but it would have to do for the time being; the nearest town was quite a ways away, and something told him not to miss this meeting.

The pond was large, nearly a small lake, with scores of fish weaving beneath the surface. Richard remembered fondly a youth spent fishing with his once-beloved sister, and suddenly he hated those fish for toying with him so. He tossed a rock into the water, sending fish scurrying away as the ripples radiated around the point of contact.

Ben was late. He pulled up in an old pickup truck with the carnival's logo emblazoned on the doors. The dirt kicked up around his tires in golden plumes as he turned down the narrow road. Richard made his way to meet him.

"You came," Ben said, surprised, as he hopped from the driver's seat.

"You. Told me to."

Ben laughed. "It'll be worth it." He led the way towards the pond, pulling his boots off as he neared the shore. Richard hesitated as he watched the boy charge into the water. "You comin'?" he called.

Uncertain, but with nothing to lose, Richard began to remove his shoes. He set them neatly beside Ben's and followed him into the water.

They waded out into the center of the pond until they were waist-deep in the murky green. For a moment, they stood stock-still as the fish reconvened around their legs. Then Ben lifted his arms.

"Do you trust me?"

Richard wasn't sure, but he nodded nonetheless.

With a deep breath, Ben placed his fingertips on Richard's face, his eyes shut tight. The sensation was difficult to decipher—he felt a strange warmth vibrating from Ben's fingers, soaking through his skin and concentrating within the ruined left side of his face. The surface of the pond began to bubble, and soon was littered with dead fish. Richard's eye widened, suddenly terrified of what he had gotten himself into.

Finally, the vibrations ceased, and Ben removed his hands. His chest was heaving. "You can take that mask off," he panted, doubling over to catch his breath.

Confused, Richard did as he was told, unconsciously blinking his phantom eye as the sunlight landed upon it.

Only it suddenly didn't feel quite so phantom as before. He blinked again; he could've sworn he felt an eyelid there. His hand flew up to check and landed not on rough scars, but on skin—soft, undamaged skin. His fingers danced over his face, wildly searching every inch. Even before his fingers reached his left eyeball, he knew something had changed.

He leaned over and scooped the dead fish to one side until the water's surface was exposed. He stared open-mouthed as the ripples eased, revealing an unmistakable reflection—

For the first time in fifteen years, he was whole.