“I look gorgeous,” I say, “just like Scarlett Morris.”

“Ha-ha,” she says.

I watch as she does her own makeup, turning her face into a beautiful skull. She puts on her cloak, hood up, and looks truly amazing. If I fuss too much over her, she’ll think I’m bullshitting, so I give her a thumbs-up and keep my compliments to myself.

We get into the car, are about to leave, when Scarlett says, “I have to pee again. I’ll be right back.”

While she’s in the house and I’m alone in the garage, wiggling impatiently in the passenger seat, I open my phone and search How many days until the next full moon?

It’s fifteen.

Fifteen days.

IV

There are approximately forty million cars in front of Ashley’s house, which is too bright to look at directly. The place is absolutely decked with orange string lights, so many it can likely be seen from space.

Scarlett finds a spot down the street, and we walk arm in arm along the rain-slick sidewalk, careful not to slip on any soppy fallen leaves. I stay alert, hyperaware of my surroundings. I’ve been looking over my shoulder so much lately, I think I’m developing neck problems.

As we approach the front door, I get a sense of just how loud it is in there. I can hear raucous laughter over the blare of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” It’s eight seventeen p.m.

“What time did this start?” I ask Scarlett.

She shrugs. “Six?”

“Six?” I ask, incredulous. “Are we parties-start-at-six years old?”

“Don’t,” she says, lifting a single finger to me before opening the door.

I have a quick vision of her performing this gesture with her kid someday. The stone-cold single-finger “Don’t.” I know she’ll be a good mother. Better than ours was.

We step inside and are met with a blast of hot air and pumpkin-scented something. There are a lot of smells at play here, but it’s really the pumpkin that’s king smell.

In the foyer, there are two men dressed in those plasticky dinosaur suits and a woman dressed as a cave person, or maybe one of the Flintstones. I’m not sure. They smile politely to acknowledge us and return to their conversation.

I look at Scarlett. “Do you know any of these people?”

“I know a few of Ash’s friends from these parties.”

“Amazing she has other friends besides us,” I say. “The nerve.”

Scarlett nods in agreement. She takes my wrist. “I’m starving. Let’s get food.”

We push through the crowd to get to the kitchen, where there’s an incredible amount of food. I’ve never seen so many Crock-Pots in the same place. I count nine Crock-Pots. Nine! There are little pumpkin place cards in front of each identifying what’s in their respective pot—a variety of meatballs, sausage and peppers, pumpkin chili. There’s a folding table covered in a Halloween-themed tablecloth that has an assortment of dips and platters with mummy hot dogs and mini pizzas shaped like ghosts with black peppercorn eyes. There’s guacamole in a cauldron surrounded by purple corn chips.