I take Zack to the fair.
“Are you gonna get in the white truck at the front?” I ask, feeding pina colada ice cream through the entrance railing.
“So you can be the leader.”
A few onlookers turn to their parents and whine about wanting ice cream at this exact same moment in time, the chain unhooks and I watch Zack bolt for the head cart.
Eventually, I’m carrying around an inflatable Sponge Bob and Zack is getting sluggish, clinging to me with surrendering eyes even after having been pumped full of caffeinated pop. He has just spent 20 minutes walking through a funhouse after I called it a less-threatening “playscape” because it took him half that time to face his fear of the revolving pipe at the exit before wanting to race through it another dozen times after that. We’re crunching over the loose gravel in the parking lot and I’m still turning around, trying to size up everything around us. Equally fried and mesmerized, I understand that we’re two kids somewhere good in Detroit.