"Don't go near the carnival."
"Strange," his father said, "that's what I was going to tell you."
"I wouldn't go back to that place for a billion dollars!"
But, Will thought, that won't stop the carnival searching through town to visit me.
"Promise, Dad?"
"Why don't you want me to go there, Will?"
"That's one of the things I'll tell tomorrow or next week or next year. You just got to trust me, Dad."
"I do, son." Dad took his hand. "It's a promise."
As if at a signal, both turned to the house. The time was up, the hour was late, enough had been said, they properly sensed they must go.
"The way you came out," said Dad, "is the way you go in."
Will walked silently to touch the iron rungs hidden under the rustling ivy.
"Dad. You won't pull these off ...?"
Dad probed one with his fingers.
"Some day, when you're tired of them, you'll take them off yourself."
"I'll never be tired of them."
"Is that how it seems? Yes, to someone your age, you figure you'll never get tired of anything. All right, son, up you go."
He saw how his father looked up along the ivy and the hidden path.
"You want to come up this way, too?"
"No, no," his father said, quickly.
"Because," said Will, "you're welcome."
"That's all right. Go on."
But still he looked at the ivy stirring in the dark morning light.
Will sprang up, grabbed the first, the second, the third rungs and looked down.
From just this distance, Dad looked as if he were shrinking, there on the ground. Somehow he didn't want to leave him behind, there in the night, like someone ditched by someone else, one hand up to move, but not moving.
"Dad!" he whispered. "You ain't got the stuff!"
Who says!? cried Dad's mouth, silently.
And he jumped.
And laughing without sound, the boy, the man swung up the side of the house, unceasingly, hand over hand, foot after foot.
He heard Dad slip, scrabble, grab.
Hold tight! he thought.