The Bruce Springsteen-themed amusement park was a bust. Their big attraction, a whitewater rafting ride called The River, was closed due to a water shortage, or on account of the economy, were some theories I overheard. I spent my allowance on carnival games to earn enough tickets for the Ghost of Tom Joad stuffie you said was cute, but the Hungry Heart machine I fed them into gave me an Atlantic City bus ticket instead of my receipt. When I got to the help desk, the staff had all gone on break, a paper sign telling us to see the Springsteen impersonator and his band perform on the boardwalk, all the way across the park. Your dad let us ride the Tunnel of Love together, where I’d dreamt of being alone with you and asking if I could kiss you, but the ride was really fast and jerky, gold lights flickering in the dark, and over the guitars and drum machines I heard you nauseously say, “you look just like my dad,” which I don’t think is true, but in the Tunnel of Love you looked kinda like my dad, too.