"Where's the Cirque Du Freak?" I asked.

"A few miles farther ahead," he said, pointing. He was kneeling down, panting for breath.

"Did you run out of steam?" I asked, holding back my laughter.

"No." He glared. "I could have made it, but did not want to arrive looking flushed."

"You'd better not rest too long," I warned him. "Morning's on its way."

"I know precisely what time it is!" he snapped. "I know more about mornings and dawns than any living human. We have plenty of time on our side. A whole forty-three minutes yet."

"If you say so."

"I do." He stood, annoyed, and began to walk. I waited until he was a little in front, then ran ahead of him.

"Hurry up, old man," I teased. "You're getting left behind."

"Keep it up," he growled. "See what it gets you. A smack on the ear and a kick in the pants."

He started running after a couple of minutes, and the two of us jogged along, side by side. I was in a good mood, happier than I'd been for months. It was nice having something to look forward to.

We passed a bunch of grungy campers on our way.

They were starting to wake up and move around. A couple waved to us. They were funny-looking people: long hair, strange clothes, weighed down with fancy earrings and bracelets.

There were banners and flags all over the camp. I tried reading them, but it was hard to focus while I was jogging, and I didn't want to stop. From what I could tell, the campers had something to do with a protest against a new road.

The road was really curvy. After the fifth turn, we finally spotted the Cirque Du Freak, nestled in a clearing by the banks of a river. It was quiet — everyone was sleeping, I imagined — and if we'd been in a car and not looking for the vans and tents, it would have been easy to miss.