“Over here,” Siri says from somewhere in my vicinity.

“Door!” I yell, choking on more shimmer. I swat at the air. It’s taking so long to settle. Is there a smoke machine in that box? I slam into the wall. “Ow.”

Siri’s hand pats against my face. “That’s my face,” I huff.

I grope along the wall until my hands find metal.

“Pull,” I instruct. My fingers clasp the rail along the back of the concrete-feeling log door. I feel Siri’s fingers land on the rod next to mine. We pull.

It doesn’t move at first, but I dig in with my feet and lean until the thing begins to budge. And then opens. The fresh air comes in with a rush.

Siri and I tumble out toward the grass, both of us locked in our own separate coughing fits. Terry’s sun hat falls to the ground as I crumble to all fours, crawling away from the house, hacking up gold spit. I turn to watch Siri lower gently to her knees beside me.

Christ. She’s completely covered in gold glitter. All I can discern of her features are her eyes and mouth. I raise my own hand in front of my face.

Holy … it doesn’t look real. We look like horrifying sparkly versions of those street artists who pretend to be statues.

I brush at my arm with a finger. The shit falls to the ground like pixie dust. Next to me Siri’s frantically swatting her arms and legs, trying to get it all off.

“What the underworld was that?” Siri gasps.

My voice wheezes out of me. “I guess we were played? Sidebar, really, you don’t even say hell?”

“Played? What do you mean played?”

“I don’t know. Terry says this trail is happy haunted. I’m assuming that’s what … that was. Some sucker must be glitter bombed every session. She must have heard that we were taking this trail today. I told her a few days back that we were going to hike it. I bet she customized a note for us. Maybe?”

“What?! That sounds like an insurance nightmare.” Siri stands, huffing and puffing. “There’s no way that Terry tried to kill us via glitter!” Her eyes are exceptionally striking amid the glitter icing her skin. They’re always a gold color, and now they weirdly match her body.

I get my feet under me and stand, brushing off my legs. “Not kill us—it’s probably organic.”

“It doesn’t feel or taste organic. I think my lungs are chafed. I might need to go to the hospital.”

I scoff. “We don’t need to go to the hospital. That’s a surefire way to ruin Plan Parental Confrontation before it’s even begun.”