They all went there to die: the cowboy, the giant bug, the bootleg Grimace. Wheeled in from carnivals and carwashes, from amusement parks and playgrounds, chipped and sun-faded and hazardous. No children ambled up onto their comical, outsized bodies. No motorist stopped by the side of the road drawn by their towering size, their frozen hands clutching a lasso or a donut. They saluted the air. Tree branches grew around their bodies. Teenagers smoked pot under the grinning, decaying ladybug, daring each other to scale the lumberjack’s pant leg. The giants seemed to accept their fate. The obscene pig with the chopped off legs reveled in the sun. Only the enormous hands seemed perplexed, fingers posed somewhere between prayer and commerce, the nails menacing.