We’re all buzzed, and it’s nice. Nobody’s reeling around, barfing, like so many of these stories end. I drained my bottle, even though it was gross, and now I’m wrapped in a warm, cinnamon-hazy quilt, layers of downy filler insulating my brain against things like awkwardness and worry—making this possibly the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. Giggling with Bree and Sage, flicking seeds at the boys, whispering about Kincaid, how cute it is that he takes his pumpkin carving so seriously, making a way better face than any of us, full of character, with a nose and eyebrows and everything, smoothing the edges with his fingertips.

Trace snaps a slim branch off an oak and whittles one end into a point, stabbing it through the bottom of a jack-o’-lantern, hefting it over his head. “Check it out. Vlad the Impaler, Vegetable Edition.”

Kincaid grins slowly. “Staked on the castle gate as a warning to other gourds.”

“Obey or—be carved with a kitty-cat face? Holy lameness, Ivy.” Trace aims a kick at her creation, whiffing just a few inches shy. “That’s not scary.”

“So?” She cradles it to her, stroking the lid. “Black cats are totally Halloween-y.”

Kincaid stands. “We need candles.” Is it me, or do his hand gestures get even more floaty and trippy when he’s been drinking? He takes nips when I’m not looking, always slipping the bottle away just as I turn. “We’ll need light on our pilgrimage.”

Pilgrimage? Bree, Sage, and I burst out laughing, Sage flops onto her back in the dead leaves to catch her breath, saying, “Where are we going?”

Kincaid’s watching me. And like that, I know.

We wait until around five thirty—twilight—to start our journey. Almost everybody from the skate park joins us. One of the holdout girlfriends, abandoned on her bench, calls, “It’s too early for jack-o’-lanterns,” but we ignore her.

Because the boys are coming with us.

The last bit of orange sunset peeks through knotted tree branches as Trace leads the way with Sage and the Jack on a Stick, its mouth glowing with a key-chain flashlight I had in my backpack. The rest of the jack-o’-lanterns are dark, cradled in our arms, grinning secretively down at the path.

“Call him,” Bree says to me, almost done with her second demon. She drinks like you’d expect, fast, direct, swallowing like it’s an assignment. “You won’t have reception in a second. Tell him you’re hanging with Sage and me and you’ll be a little late.”

My phone feels heavy in my pocket. “Well, I’m supposed to make supper tonight. My mom’s working.” Given that Dad always gets out late, I’ve got maybe half an hour before I need to be home. Kincaid said it takes a while to reach the railroad bridge, like over twenty minutes.