As a young man, Ernest had carved his initials onto one of those trees along with Gracie's–­–­and those of another girl too. He hadn't seen her in forever.

As an aerialist rode a motorcycle on a taut cable stretched from the stadium to the Space Needle, Ernest listened to the whooshing and mechanical thrumming of carnival rides. He caught the aroma of freshly spun cotton candy, still warm, and remembered the sticky-­sweet magic of candied apples. He felt a pressing wave of déjà vu.

The present is merely the past reassembled, Ernest mused as he pictured the two girls and how he'd once strolled with them, arm in arm, on the finely manicured grounds of Seattle's first world's fair, the great Alaska-­Yukon-­Pacific Exposition, back in 1909. When the city first dressed up and turned its best side to the cameras of the world. He remembered a perfect day, when he fell in love with both girls.

But as Ernest walked to the gate and leaned on the cold metal bars, he also smelled smoke. He heard fussy children crying. And his ears were still ringing with the echoes of the celebratory cannons that had scared the birds away.

He drew a deep breath. Memories are narcotic, he thought. Like the array of pill bottles that sit cluttered on my nightstand. Each dose, carefully administered, use as directed. Too much and they become dangerous. Too much and they'll stop your heart.

Excerpted from Love and Other Consolation Prizes by Jamie Ford. Copyright © 2017 by Jamie Ford. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.