The wet squeak of running sneakers began near the concessions as a teenager in a striped uniform started shouting toward the fire doors.
I stood up, leaving the paper crown on the vinyl bench, and moved toward the safety gate before the crowd of parents converged on the narrow exit hallway.
Kobe was already off the trampoline, his bare feet gray against the dust of the transition mat.
“Keep your boots in your hand,” I told him, checking his respiration rate as I reached his side.
He did not look at me, but his fingers gripped the leather of his winter boots so hard his knuckles turned yellow.
The crowd pushed us through the vestibule, where the synthetic fog from the laser tag arena had begun to mix with the cold air coming through the automatic doors.
The wind off the Mississippi River hit us the moment we cleared the outer threshold, carrying the sharp scent of damp asphalt and river silt.
My niece, Sailor, was standing by the blue bike racks in her neon green jump-socks.
She was ten years old, her blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail that she twirled around her index finger with mechanical precision.
“We did not get to eat the cupcakes,” Sailor said, her voice dropping into the flat, rehearsed cadence she used when she wanted to sound older.
“Your father is supposed to be supervising you, Sailor,” I said, looking across the crowded parking lot.
“He said he had to check his work messages in the car because of a margin call,” she said.
She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small plastic game cartridge, turning it over in her palm.
“Uncle Gage said I could have the new console system if Kobe cried at his party,” she said.
The wind carried the smell of exhaust from thirty idling family vehicles near the curb.
