“We go wherever he might have a chance,” she said.
*
My manager glanced at the clock when I punched in for work an hour late.
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. Just some personal stuff.”
But instead of a lecture, he warned me about a family who’d been red-flagged this morning as a flight risk. The six-year-old girl, Kayla McNamara, was a level 5 biohazard with open pustules on her body, wearing a CDC-approved pink hazmat suit in a teddy bear print. While symptomatic transmission to adults was rare, the park didn’t want to take any chances, especially when an employee might pass the virus to kids in their family. The mother was incredibly devout and believed solely in prayer, so the girl hadn’t been treated with any of the drug cocktails administered to most infected children. The mother had also refused to be apart from her daughter when instructed to join the other parents in the Learning Land Room. He told me to keep an eye on her but not to interfere in any way.
“Call me directly if it escalates,” he continued. “We want to avoid a spectacle. We need to maintain the illusion for the children. The father will join them this afternoon.”
I was juggling bean bags as I tailed the high-risk family from a distance. Normally a small fan inside the costume keeps me from overheating, but on this day the battery had died. Beads of sweat dripped down my face, stinging my eyes; my shirt and boxers clung to my body. I lifted my costume headpiece slightly, letting in a rush of air. I focused on Kayla as she pointed to a kiosk with balloons, an ice cream stand, the bumper cars. Her mother ignored her. If this girl was lucky, she’d last the day without collapsing. The heat weighed on my limbs, creating a halo of light-headedness. I wanted to stop Kayla’s mother from ruining her daughter’s final day. The little girl dutifully followed along and I was reminded of Fitch, how he was always brave for Dorrie, even though his lungs burned and his stomach ached so much he could only ingest liquids. “Dance of the Little Swans” played from the loudspeakers as Mrs. McNamara held on to Kayla in line for the Dipsy Doodle boat ride, furtively scanning the crowd from behind her oversized sunglasses. When she turned in my direction, I began dancing wildly, diving deep into character.
“Just let the poor girl go on the damn ride,” I whispered inside my costume. I wondered what Kayla dreamed about—maybe she wanted to go to space like Fitch. “Just let her have this one thing.”
But right as they were about to step onto a boat, her mother slipped out of line, pulling Kayla behind her, quickly weaving through the crowd.
“We have a runner,” I said into the radio, alerting my manager and security. “Repeat, we have a runner. Headed west toward the Laughateria. Requesting immediate assistance.” I tried to keep up with Kayla and her mother, uncertain when security would arrive, afraid one of the tower guards might take a shot if they noticed them. I looked toward the fence, saw figures in black scanning the park through the scopes of their rifles.
“Tell the watchtower security to stand down,” I radioed to my manager. “I still have the family in sight.”
“A Roller Daze Security Squad is on the way,” my manager said.
The mother and daughter slowed to a walk. I crept up behind them, ducking behind signage and bushes to remain out of sight. They were headed to a perimeter fence, and despite the signs indicating injury or death from high voltage, the fences were not electrified.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, slowly approaching, “but you’re entering an off-limits area. Are you okay, Kayla? Do you want to go on a ride?”
The girl looked up at her mother and then at me. Her tiny chest rose and fell as she tried to catch her breath.
“You don’t understand,” Mrs. McNamara said, crying. “They’re trying to take her away. I thought I could do this. But I can’t let her go.” The little girl leaned on her mother, barely able to stand.
“It’s okay,” I said, reaching out my arms like some kind of savior. I felt sorry for this mother. Sure, the park was better than an overrun hospital or a converted warehouse turned plague ward, but what parent wanted to say goodbye? “I’m here to help. Take my hand, Kayla.”
I took a few steps closer. I was nearly an arm’s length away when something knocked the air out of me and I found myself on the ground, head throbbing. A man kicked me in the stomach. He tore off my mouse head and told me to keep my hands off his family. I probably could have grabbed him by the legs like a calf and taken him down, but the entertainment staff can be fired for touching guests. I closed my eyes when he spat in my face and told him I was sorry. I winced as he pulled back his fist for a right hook and then, in a blur of blue sequins, the security team on Rollerblades whisked the entire family away.