(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
Saturday, August 20, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
August brought the fair.
And the fair brought Point Place out of hiding.
The county fairgrounds sat on the edge of town—dusty paths, livestock barns, food stands, rides that looked like they'd been built by someone's uncle and prayer. It was loud and bright and smelled like sweat, popcorn, hay, and something fried that made your stomach clench even if you weren't hungry.
Kitty loved the fair.
It was one of the few times in the year she got to be excited without guilt.
Red tolerated the fair.
He tolerated most things for Kitty—especially lately, when she still looked tired from having a baby, and when her smiles had started to look like effort instead of habit.
Monica rode in the back seat between Laurie and a diaper bag that felt like it weighed as much as Monica did. Eric was with Kitty in the front, fussing softly.
The moment they parked and stepped out into the sun, Laurie's whole body turned electric.
People.
Noise.
Attention.
Laurie surged forward like she was trying to outrun her own jealousy.
Kitty grabbed her wrist. "Laurie—stay close—"
Laurie yanked free.
Red's voice came sharp. "Kitty, keep her—"
Kitty snapped, exhausted. "I am keeping her, Red!"
Red's mouth flattened. He hated that Kitty had started snapping back.
But he also looked… almost proud sometimes, like he respected the steel when it finally showed.
They entered through the main gate, and Point Place's world swallowed them.
Kids ran around with cotton candy. Teenagers tried to act older than they were. Men stood near the beer tent with their hands shoved in pockets, watching everything.
And there—near the center, by a booth with a banner that read POINT PLACE PLANT — FAMILY DAY—stood men in plant jackets talking like they owned the fair.
Red's shoulders stiffened.
Kitty noticed instantly. "Red…?"
Red's jaw tightened. "That's Jack."
Kitty's face shifted—polite anxiety. "Your boss?"
Red grunted. "Yeah."
Monica's attention sharpened.
Jack Burkhart.
She'd heard Red say the name before, usually in a tone that meant "don't ask." If Jack was here, it meant Red had to perform too—good worker, good family man, loyal employee.
Monica watched Red's spine straighten like he was putting armor on.
They approached the booth, and the man at the center turned.
Jack Burkhart was broad and confident, the kind of man who smiled like he expected the world to smile back. His shirt was clean in a way Red's never was after work. His hair was neat. His eyes were sharp.
"Forman!" Jack called, loud enough for people to hear. "There he is!"
Red's mouth went tight into a forced expression that wasn't quite a smile. "Mr. Burkhart."
Jack laughed. "Aw, don't 'Mr.' me at the fair. How's the missus?"
Kitty stepped forward, smile bright. "Hi, Mr. Burkhart—"
Jack's eyes flicked over Kitty quickly, then toward the baby in her arms. "Well, look at that—another one."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Yes—Eric."
Jack nodded like he was approving a business deal. "Good. Good. Boys are—" His eyes flicked toward Red, and he slapped Red's shoulder hard enough to jolt him. "Boys are what keep a man straight."
Red's jaw clenched.
Monica watched the exchange and understood something instantly:
Jack Burkhart didn't talk to Red like a person.
He talked to Red like a possession.
Laurie, sensing a new adult audience, stepped forward and batted her eyelashes—toddler charm.
Jack laughed. "And who's this little doll?"
Kitty hurried, eager to keep things pleasant. "That's Laurie."
Laurie grinned.
Jack's gaze flicked past Laurie to Monica—quiet, still, watching.
His brows lifted slightly. "And this one?"
Kitty smiled. "Monica."
Jack stared a beat too long, like he was trying to read Monica the way you read a label.
Monica kept her face blank and sweet.
Jack's mouth curved. "Quiet one, huh?"
Red's voice came tight. "Yeah."
Jack laughed and turned back to Red, lowering his voice—but not enough.
"You hear the chatter?" Jack asked, casual. "People love to talk."
Red's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
Jack's smile stayed easy. "Nothing to worry about. We're keeping things… efficient."
Efficient.
Monica felt the word like a cold touch.
Jack leaned in closer to Red, voice dropping another level. "Just keep your head down, Forman. You do your job, you'll be fine."
Red's face stayed flat, but his shoulders stiffened as if the words were an insult disguised as comfort.
Kitty's smile flickered. "Red always does his job."
Jack nodded like Kitty was cute for believing that mattered. "Good. Good."
Then Jack's gaze moved past them, already bored.
Performance complete.
Red muttered, "We should go."
Kitty blinked. "We just got here."
Red's mouth tightened. "I don't need to stand there and listen to him talk about 'efficiency' like we're parts."
Kitty's eyes flashed—real anger now. "Red, not here."
Red swallowed it back, jaw clenching.
Monica watched both of them and stored it away:
The plant isn't just paychecks.
It's pride.
It's control.
It's men like Jack deciding what families deserve.
They moved away from the booth, deeper into the fair.
Kitty tried to recover quickly, brightness forced back into her voice. "Okay! Let's see the animals!"
Laurie squealed and sprinted toward the livestock barns.
Red stalked after her, muttering.
Monica stayed close to Kitty, eyes scanning everything.
Inside the barn, the air was thick and warm, full of hay and animal heat. Cows stood in stalls. Pigs grunted. Chickens clucked in cages. Children pointed and shrieked.
Laurie shoved past a boy to get closer to a calf.
The boy shoved back.
Laurie's face twisted.
Kitty's voice went sharp. "Laurie—no pushing."
Laurie opened her mouth, ready to scream.
Before she could, Eric started crying in Kitty's arms—loud, hungry, desperate.
Kitty's face crumpled. "Oh—baby—"
And just like that, Laurie wasn't the center anymore.
Laurie's eyes narrowed, burning with resentment.
Monica saw it and moved—quiet, fast, toddler-clumsy on purpose.
She tugged lightly on Laurie's sleeve and babbled something soft, then pointed toward a cage of fluffy chicks.
Laurie's gaze snapped to the chicks.
Chicks were cute.
Chicks were a new audience.
Laurie moved toward them, momentarily distracted.
Kitty exhaled shakily, whispering, "Thank you…"
Monica didn't respond. Just blinked sweetly.
Red stood behind them, watching. His face was hard, but his eyes kept flicking to Monica with that conflicted look—approval mixed with suspicion.
Like he wanted Monica to be a normal little girl.
But he also wanted her to be the thing that held the house together.
They left the barn and wandered past food stands. Kitty bought Laurie a small lemonade just to keep her hands occupied. Red bought a hot dog and ate it like he was punishing it.
Monica didn't ask for anything.
She watched.
Near the edge of the fair, a small school booth was set up—FALL ENROLLMENT INFORMATION with pamphlets and a cheerful woman smiling too hard.
Kitty's eyes lit up despite exhaustion. "Oh! Red, look—"
Red grunted. "They're too young."
Kitty smiled anyway, drifting closer. "It's never too early to plan."
The woman at the booth leaned forward. "Hi! Do you have little ones starting soon?"
Kitty laughed. "Not for a while, but—"
The woman's eyes flicked over the twins. "Two? Oh! They'll be in kindergarten before you know it."
Kitty's smile softened, dreamy. "I know…"
Monica stared at the pamphlets.
Paper.
Print.
Books, in the most basic sense.
The future path.
Laurie grabbed a pamphlet and immediately tore it in half.
Kitty gasped. "Laurie!"
The school woman's smile tightened. "Oh."
Kitty's face flushed. "I'm so sorry—she's—"
Red's voice went flat and final. "We're going."
Kitty tried to recover. "Red—"
Red cut in. "Now."
Kitty swallowed her frustration and nodded, lifting Eric higher.
As they walked away, Monica looked back at the school booth.
Then she looked at Kitty's tired face.
Then she looked at Red's stiff posture.
And she understood something with adult clarity:
Education, in Point Place, wasn't just learning.
It was escape.
Escape from plant schedules.
Escape from bosses like Jack.
Escape from "everybody knows everybody."
But it would also become another arena—another place where people watched, judged, gossiped.
Monica's future would have to be bigger than this town.
Bigger than this fair.
Bigger than the plant.
As they reached the car, Laurie threw a tantrum because she wanted to stay.
Kitty tried to soothe. Red snapped. Eric cried. The heat pressed down.
Monica climbed into her seat quietly and buckled herself in slow, careful toddler motions—normal, harmless.
But her mind was already reaching forward, past the fair and the plant and the small-town performances.
Because she could feel it now, clear as anything:
Point Place wasn't going to get kinder.
It was going to get tighter.
And Monica would have to start preparing—not just to survive her family, but to survive the town that shaped them.