Coralie threw herself across her bed. As she dreamed on this hazy afternoon she found herself lost in the woods. She spied the young man once again and followed him to a cliff. She could view the river from where she stood and hear the birds in the sycamore trees. The young man seemed to know her, and he stepped near. Coralie hoped he would embrace her, but instead he urged her to jump into the river. It’s the only way, he said to her. The danger seemed so apparent, only a fool would make such a leap. Coralie was torn between her wish to win him over and her dread. It’s much easier than you could have ever imagined, the young man told her. She took one step and began to fall through the air, not breathing until she hit the water. There, in the river, she became her deepest self, a monster, to be sure, but one with iridescent scales, a fierce and fearless wonder of the world.

Restless, Coralie went out walking regardless of the weather, often stopping to watch the workers at Dreamland. There were hundreds of men swarming over the park, painting and reconstructing the buildings to ensure that Dreamland would be ready for the last weekend of May. She’d hoped to see Mr. Morris among the crowd of newly hired performers, for many had reported in early so they might practice their acts throughout April and May, but he was nowhere to be seen. Still, the park drew her to its gates. She was fascinated with the land of Lilliputia, where everything had been built to scale, so that a tall man might easily lean his elbow on the roofs of the houses and a full-grown woman could stare down the chimneys to watch the miniature lives that would be led inside for the entertainment of Dreamland’s patrons. Coralie wondered if these small people were grateful to be protected in their separate world, if they would light candles in the evenings and sit comfortably at their dining room tables, curtains drawn, so they might lead ordinary lives.

When she grew tired of watching the little village, Coralie peered through the wire fencing to gaze at the shell of the enormous ride Hell Gate. It was impossible to see inside, but she found herself frightened by the artwork that surrounded it, devils with their beards and magic wands. What she loved most was to view the animals in their pens. The great animal trainer Bonavita spied her watching and invited her in through the employees’ gate. She immediately recognized him from posters that were hung all over Coney Island. Bonavita had been well known in Europe, and now, in Brooklyn, he was a star. He was a handsome, graceful man, despite having lost one arm to a maddened lion called Baltimore. The animals were kept year round in a lot beside the park, surrounded by tall fences spiked with nails and glass to ensure that neighborhood boys searching for thrills wouldn’t climb over and find themselves in a cage of tigers or discover they had come face-to-face with Bonavita’s beloved black-maned lion, Black Prince.

The animal workers lived in nicely furnished apartments above the animal arena. Bonavita invited Coralie to his apartment for tea; his wife and daughter were visiting friends in Manhattan. Coralie hesitated, wondering if he read the same thing in her face that the tattooed lady had divined. Did he see her as a whore, expecting more than the kiss the night watchman had begged for? And yet Bonavita seemed a perfect gentleman, even though he was so attractive movie stars wrote him love notes. When Coralie sat at the table, he served orange pekoe tea, asking if she would like lemon or cream. His disability did not seem to affect him or his thoughts about himself, and this alone amazed Coralie. Soon enough, she learned that he possessed the kindness of a truly great animal trainer. He confided that animals never responded to cruelty; trainers who used that method would one day find that their charges turned upon them and be maimed by the beasts they had beaten into a false docility. Bonavita proclaimed that human beings were not the only species that cried or formed deep attachments. He made reference to a Captain Andre, the trainer of Little Hip, the elephant who was the mascot of the park, leading the opening day parade every year. In Bonavita’s estimation, Andre was a genius of a trainer, and in return his elephant was so resolute in his loyalty he would bellow all night if not allowed to sleep in Andre’s room.

Coralie felt comforted by these stories of men’s devotion to their charges. If a beast could be treated with kindness and respect, perhaps there was hope for her as well. Bonavita’s animals were treasured companions, rather than possessions to be shown off and displayed. Bonavita took her to see Black Prince, his pride and joy, the lion he had raised as a cub. Prince was sleeping on a cushion. When his trainer called his name, he looked up lazily and yawned. Before Coralie knew what was happening, Bonavita had opened the cage and slipped inside. The lion rose to his feet when he spied his trainer. When they met in the center of the cage, the creature let out a sound that sent chills down Coralie’s spine. He then leapt up to an enormous height, a black mane framing his ferocious face, his huge paws balanced on his trainer’s shoulders. Certainly the trainer’s deformity did not make him any less than any other man. He was, by far, the most courageous individual Coralie had ever seen.