Mira Corpora. Jeff Jackson

presence. The small faces, hairy paws, arched tails. “They’re real,” I say.

      “Quiet,” Isaac says. “Back away slowly. Don’t spook them.” We take a series of deliberate and measured steps toward the entrance of the midway, as if this too is part of the ritual. The whistling whoops and belly growls begin to escalate. A shiver ripples through my body. I imagine a mass of furry backs hunched in the shadows, anxious for us to leave so they can swarm the plates and devour their offering. We keep walking with our gazes trained on the ground, but I can tell we’re encircled by countless pairs of tremulous golden eyes.