That was his name. Joey. Born 1997. Same as the date on the box.

"You opened it early," the man said. His voice echoed like a tunnel. "I buried that box when I was twelve. The carnival comes every year on August 17th. It takes one of us. I tried to warn you—but you're me. And I never listen."

The Slide of Mirrors was a garish purple tube at the far end of the midway. No line. No attendant. Just a sign: "One rider at a time. No refunds."

Joey looked down. His hands were starting to fade, like old film left in the sun.

Joey laughed nervously. August 17th was tomorrow.