Bree produces some Jolly Ranchers, a half-pack of gum; Landon and Ivy have caramel creams, Starlight mints; a girl whose name I don’t know has a travel-size tube of Tylenol, cold sore treatment. It all goes into the pumpkins, stuffed under the lids, pushed in through the mouths so that wrappers poke out through uneven teeth.

Kincaid surveys the scene, says again, softly, “There should be candles.”

I’ve got nothing in my pockets but the dust of some long-ago cough drop. A second of panic, then Kincaid is there, pressing something into my palm without drawing attention. A plastic spider ring, the kind you get from a treat bag at a little kid’s Halloween party. I take it, still warm from his hand, and push it through my pumpkin’s eye socket.

“They’re just going to rot.” Bree hugs herself, sounding a little wistful. “They never last once you carve them.”

“Then you can steal us some more.” Kincaid smiles, and I’m pretty sure her night’s just been made.

Trace and Sage start it, the separating. People pairing off, splitting from the group like gauzy tissue caught in the wind. Footsteps moving over stone; hands slide down arms to link fingers. I see Landon and Ivy slip through the trees at the opposite end of the bridge, a few other shadows moving together in the same direction. Bree and I turn back, the way we came, slow footsteps speeding up, turning to a run.

Tonight, it’s hide-and-seek instead of chase, a silent, creeping game. I think I’ll be okay even when Bree chooses her own path; I can do this myself. Everybody except maybe Kincaid must feel lost out here. I crouch for a while behind a thicket, listening to other sneaking footsteps moving around me, a cry and a wild giggle as somebody gets pounced on.

I hide until I’m stiff and chilled, then turn on my phone flashlight and move on, half hoping Bree will find me even though I think it’s every woman for herself in this. I keep going, following the slope of the forest floor, hiding behind a tree here and there.

When I finally stop, I’m not sure where the path is. I’ve lost track of time. Maybe nobody’s looking for me, or they think I gave up, went back to the park on my own.

It hits me then, wandering alone in these dead-kid woods. My Fireball bravado fades to cold, damp, the feeling of sulfurous mud sucking at my shoes. I’ve strayed too far down the slope—this is turning into salt flats—and I start to run, wishing I could text where r u guys, but it wouldn’t send, and what could they even say? In woods. U?