There's something childishly intoxicating about the flashing lights and the smell of fried food emanating from every corner of this island. It batters Wrench's senses in a way no less overwhelming than the putrid-sweet stench of flowers, but certainly more welcome. He's no more certain what his purpose is here than he was before, but the cut on his hand is healed (apart from the gnarly scar) and he's starting to get his bearings.

The giant carousel in the middle of it all reminds him of something he saw once in the Mall of America, and instantly he's reminiscing on his old unfulfilled desire to climb atop one of those big black horses and let it twist him around and around. It takes a little coaxing from the faces he recognizes from the last island, but it's not too long before Wrench is straddled one of the attraction's statues, looking plainly ridiculous.

It's a dizzying blur of lights and color, and when it finally comes to a stop the man whose feet scraped the floor of the carousel has been reduced to a boy of no more than twelve, gangly and underfed and with a shock of rumpled hair half-bleached by the sun. He stumbles off the ride and looks around, scowling with mischief.