Macadam's Circus had played out their week in Fontana, forty miles east of L.A., when Joshie the Clown found Little Bear. Joshie was packing up the VR headsets in the Tokyo Tank trailer when he heard whimpering. He patrolled the rows of gummy plastic chairs until he found the source: a boy in a fuzzy blue sleepsuit, huddled in the next to the last seat in the back. The hood was pulled tight over the kid's head. He looked to be about four, and he stared up at Joshie with still brown eyes.
"Hey, don't be scared," Joshie said. He put on his best clown grin. The boy shrank away and tucked his chin into the suit.
Montego Bay, Macadam's hulking lead carny, came up at that moment. "Another lost kid," he said. "Better call the cops."
Joshie said, "I don't know, Monty. Look at his clothes."
The sleepsuit was smeared with yellow streaks of dried mustard. Joshie caught a whiff of sour child sweat as he loosened the knot at the boy's neck which held the hood tight. He pushed the soft fabric away from the boy's forehead to expose short, luxuriant golden fur.
"He's a freak," Montego said.
Amid the fur were two delicate pointed ears. The boy growled deep in his throat as Joshie touched the tip of his right ear.
"No point in calling the cops, is there?" Joshie put his arm around the boy and lifted him from the seat. The boy made little hooting noises as he nestled his head into Joshie's white and red striped ruff.
"Wonder if he can talk?" Montego stepped into the aisle. Montego was a normal, in the sense that his powerful chest and arms as thick as the average woman's waist were paid-for modifications, cosmetic only, as opposed to Joshie, who'd been born a clown, his nose ending in a tip the size and color of a ripe apricot. Joshie's most embarrassing disability was hidden beneath his red satin gloves: he had only three spatulate fingers and a thumb on each hand.
"Hootie-hoo! Hootie-hoo," said the boy.
"His parents must be real winners, dumping the kid here," Montego said.
Joshie shook his head. "Where else?"
Montego fingered his chin. "You got a point," he said. Then, his face darkened. "You're not thinking about keeping the kid?"
Joshie stroked the soft fur on the boy's head. The small legs tightened like a vice around his chest. "Maybe," he said. "You know what? I think he's a little bit like Gyla."
"Wrong color." Gyla was the silver wolf girl and her fur was all over her body. Montego crossed his arms and his bulging muscles tensed until it looked as though they'd leap from the skin. "Don't be stupid. Macadam will be royally pissed if you keep that kid."
The boy squirmed and Joshie got a whiff of the fur on his head. It was silky, but it smelled dark and oily, or maybe it was only the filthy smoke from the burning tires. "I know somebody who does child welfare in L.A. County. I'll call her when we get there."
Montego squinted at him. "Yeah? Well, maybe so. You'd better call her."
"Sure, Monty," Joshie said, grinning with his big red mouth. Montego cracked a smile and waved him off.
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