Dead Drop

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The line to nineteen-year-old Mukhtar Tahir’s concession stand grew longer with each passing minute, as if someone had leaked an awful rumor that the world was running out of shaved ice. Buccaneer Beach Thrill Park was pirate themed, and like most of the other buildings, the ice stand was built to look like the hull of a wooden ship, with cartoonish lines and white sails of carefully tattered canvas.

Handing two drippy paper cones through the large cannon port in the side of the ship’s hull, Mukhtar used his forearm to push the stupid black tricorne hat out of his eyes for the tenth time in as many minutes and caught a glimpse of a pretty twentysomething named Fadila. She must have been on a break, because she loitered on the oak-lined path behind the funnel cake shack. Her long hair hung loose around smallish shoulders and even from half a block away he could see it shimmering blue-black in what was left of the evening sun.

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