The ball rolled out — 26 — and the attic smelled of rain and frying shallots. Ama and Tam were standing at the edge of a night fair on the river. Coloured bulbs swung on a wire. Up on a small stage a caller in a bright costume shook a tin and sang.
“She never just says the number,” Tam whispered. “She makes you wait for it.” The caller, who said her name was Rima, sang a line that ended with a gap, and the whole crowd shouted the last word back at her before she could. Then everyone covered a square.
Rima winked at them. “The rhyme is the doorway,” she said. “If you can hear where a line is going, you can be there first.” She handed Tam the tin.