My daughter was already in the front car of The Dragon, hugging her seven-year-old doppelganger who, weirdly, shares her name. The Ellas, dressed in pink, bobbed in blonde, the colors of the dogwood blossoms this festival is named for, were blind to the scarred cheeks of the carnies, in whose hands we put their lives.
The other Ella’s dad, John, shot me a look when the carnie pulled out a screwdriver and wrestled with a loose screw on the track. But we didn’t take the girls off the ride. They made a show of lifting their hands above their heads and screaming in delight as they raced downhill.
