They’re itching to go. Sailor thinks he’s going with them, which he is not.

Cate thinks Joe is a boy out of his time. He lives in a culture he has created to the side of his peers. The good thing about this is Neale doesn’t have the standard-issue parental concerns. She doesn’t have to worry about him spending too much time on video games, since he doesn’t play them. She doesn’t have to worry about him getting a concussion on some playing field, since he is not interested in team sports of any kind.

His interests are obscure. The noise music. According to Neale, he listens a lot—maybe too much?—to William Basinski’s Disintegration Loops, essentially the sounds of a tape wearing out as it plays over and over for hours. And of course, there are the Mexican Porno Nuns. He’s also into film history. None of the other kids are, and so he watches old movies, sometimes with Neale, but more often by himself. He can stream almost anything he wants from the twentieth century. They go downtown to the Siskel Center or over to the Music Box for what he calls the “theatrical experience.” Neale is grateful for Kiera’s presence, Theo’s too, to dilute Joe’s solitude.

“I can drive you over,” Neale says.

“Actually, it’s like two blocks away,” Joe says. “At Michael’s house.”

“Don’t cut through the vacant lot,” Neale says.

“I know. We won’t. I mean of course we won’t.”

Once they’re gone, Neale says, “What’s up with ‘actually’? Suddenly it’s all over the place. Isn’t ‘actually’ supposed to imply a mistake being corrected? I don’t believe I said anything that would require a correction.”

“I think it’s a little snippiness entering the larger conversation. I get it all the time. Like I call someone’s office and an assistant answers and I ask if I can speak with Mr. Boomba and she says, ‘Well actually, he isn’t here.’ ”

“I’ve noticed that, too. It’s probably part of something bigger. It’s probably hooked up somehow with that voice sales clerks use at Banana Republic, high-pitched and so insanely cheerful you’re supposed to understand it’s ironic. That it means they hate their job and think you look fat in the sweater and are an idiot to pay as much for it as you are.”

They set up their candy distribution point on Neale’s front steps. They offer fun-size Snickers from an orange plastic bowl with a creepy gray-green rubber hand coming out of its center. A motion detector sets off the hand whenever someone reaches for the candy. At the moment, it’s responding to five grabby little Spider-Men.

THANK you!!!! the creepy hand screeches in a loud, witchy voice while it squirms around a little. Other times the hand cackles HAP-py Halloween!!!!