It’s more than a bridge, though: it’s a shrine. Candles have been burned all down the length of the stone ledge on either side, streaks of wax hardened into shiny pools that splinter at the pressure of a foot. Broken beer-bottle glass here and there, and lots of candy wrappers, some stuck in the wax, others scattering in the breeze. The graffiti here is different—sexual, ultra-graphic. Guy parts, girl parts, scrawled requests for things, one picture that looks like it was drawn by a fourth grader copying from Hustler. I ask, “When was the last time a train ran through here?” just so nobody catches me blushing.

Kincaid tucks his pumpkin under one arm and leans on the railing. “Maybe twenty years ago. Before the state turned this into protected land. People used it as an excuse for what happened to Ricky, so it must’ve been running back then.”

Trace lays his pike down and sweeps Sage off her feet, spinning her, making her shriek. “Time to check out the ol’ swimming hole!”

When he sets her down, she smacks him across the chest. “Dick! Don’t do that!”

“Come on, like I’d really let go.”

“Uh, yeah, you really would.”

He palms the top of her head, pulling her against him in a hug. “I’m not going to throw you down there with the ghost of Ricky Sartain, all gutted and ripped up—” He laughs as she beats him; then he calls in a falsetto, “Helll-ooo, Mumbler? Hungry, dawg? Got something for you—” With his free hand, he grabs Moon by the back of the neck, mimes heaving him over the side. Both boys bust up laughing, throwing punches at each other, shoving.

Ignoring all of it, Kincaid balances his jack-o’-lantern on the railing and takes a couple slow steps back, his face totally still, studying how it looks against the dusky backdrop. He still has a cold—I can see it in the glassiness of his eyes, hear him sniff now and then; skating around outside all the time probably makes it tough to shake. After a minute, everybody notices him and follows suit, the laughter dying down to a few stray giggles, staggering their jack-o’-lanterns along the railing so that the carved faces stare back at us in a row. I’m aware of Kincaid’s gaze on me, and the humiliating word for a girl part spray-painted just beneath my jack-o’-lantern, which I didn’t notice until right now. My face gets even hotter.

“Make the offering, guys,” Kincaid says quietly. Everybody reaches into their pockets like they knew this was coming, and I think of the candy wrappers hardened into the wax, evidence of other supplicants, other pilgrimages.