Free Valknut: The Binding by Marie Loughin

anymore!”
    Junkyard shrugged. “Always seem to have them
at the Day Old Bakery here.”
    Lennie decided not to check the expiration
date. The things contained enough preservatives to keep them fresh
through a glacial winter. She tore the package open and took a
bite. The cake was wonderfully soft and the filling had that
artificial banana flavor she remembered so well.
    “My dad used to buy me one of these every
time I placed in a track meet,” she said around a mouthful. She
swallowed and grinned. “Good incentive. I got a lot of medals.”
    Junkyard raised an eyebrow. “Track, eh?”
    “Yeah. I started when I was eight. Dad went
to every meet.”
    She used to find him in the stands before she
ran, looking out of place in his too-tight Ames Track Club t-shirt.
He always gave her a thumbs-up. Her smile faded. Where would she
find him now? In a hobo jungle, or maybe a homeless shelter. If she
found him at all.
    If he was even still alive.
    A dull ache settled in her chest. She
preferred the sharper, physical pain of her vanished cuts and
bruises. Those, at least, would heal with time.
    Junkyard rummaged in the grocery bag, coming
up with some Ho-Hos for Jim and a package of hair bands for Lennie.
She took them gratefully, forgiving him for the lack of coffee. She
finished the snack cake and began finger-combing her hair,
pondering her next move.
    She had no reason to trust Ramblin’ Red, but
she could search for a dozen years and never find such a strong
lead again. She had to follow through on it now, before the trail
went cold. If she didn’t find her father in Minneapolis, well,
maybe then she’d go back to Ames for some gear.
    Sighing, she gave up on her hair and tied it
back, tangles and all, ignoring the few stubborn curls that refused
to be contained. The problem was, she had no idea where in
Minneapolis to look.
    Or did she?
    Ridiculously happy, Jungle Jim unwound his Ho
Ho and licked at the white frosting inside. Lennie watched him
speculatively. “So, what’s this festival I keep hearing about?”
    “It’s the Greater Midwest Railroad Days—”
Junkyard began.
    Jungle Jim interrupted with a flood of
enthusiasm. “It’s the best, is what it is! They got a carnival, an’
a flea market, an’ art shows, an’ a parade—but that’s just the
tourist stuff. The real fun is seein’ my friends. Langford Leftie
always comes, an’ the Kentucky Kid. Bones O’Riley is a hoot an’ a
half, an’ Too Long Soo sure can bang on her guitar. And of course
there’s Tin Can Petey...”
    Jungle Jim stopped as though he had hit a
wall. His mouth dropped open and his eyes emptied. Then, as though
the necessary connection had been made, his mouth twisted downward
and he blinked tears onto his cheeks. Lennie shot a concerned
glance at Junkyard, whose face remained rigidly calm.
    “Jim,” he said.
    No response. Junkyard laid a hand on his
arm.
    “Tell Lennie about the kids, Jim.”
    Jungle Jim lifted his head and looked at
Junkyard with puffy, red eyes. “Kids?”
    He sniffed wetly, and then a smile lit up his
face. Lennie was amazed, not only by Jim’s lightning mood swings,
but by Junkyard’s ability to counter them. Jim started babbling
like a happy child.
    “The kids! They’re the very best part of the
festival.” He jumped to his feet and started pacing. “There’s
Tyler. He’s always lookin’ for candy in my pockets. An’ Jeffy likes
to toot my nose. Little Nick is terrible shy an’ I like to make him
smile. But best of all is Ashley Sutter.” He hugged himself. “Last
year, she brought me cookies! Can we go see ’em, now? Please,
Dougie?”
    Junkyard laughed. “It’s a little early, but I
don’t see why we can’t take a look around.” He dug into the grocery
bag again and handed Jim a bag of peppermints. “You better take
these. You don’t want to disappoint Tyler.”
    While Jungle Jim hid the candy in the many
pockets of his suit coat, Junkyard gathered their gear and jumped
from the