At Jo’s, pumpkins lit up on the lawn, a huge cauldron belching smoke. Jo dressed in a brown curly wig and overalls patched with blood, Leni with a monocle and Victorian skirts shredded at the hems, a stick of dynamite strapped to her boot. What are you? he asks. Guess. He squints. Both of them have red smeared over their mouths, black beneath their eyes. Zombies? Zombie feminists, Jo says. I’m Andrea Dworkin, obviously, and this here’s Emma Goldman. And what are you? An eating disorder? Xie shrugs. Just bones. Jo shakes her head. That is incredibly basic. They sit on the porch handing candy to trick-or-treaters and watching Jo’s parents’ friends drink red punch ladled from a crystal bowl filled with plastic eyeballs. Hey you, a woman says, tight black dress, knee-high boots. Too cozy next to Jo. Beautiful night, isn’t it? These your friends? Leni smiles, skittish. Introduces herself. And who’s that there? the woman says, leaning to look at Xie, who ducks his head. Jo smirks. Oh, that? That’s your worst nightmare, she says, teeth stained pink from the punch. Xie chuffs. The woman laughs, short, dismissive. Well, you guys look great. We’re not guys, Jo says, and the woman blinks. What? You called us guys, there’s at least two women sitting here. Oh—I’m sorry, young ladies, the woman says, smiling, and Jo smiling back, but mean: You really need to think harder about the gender bias you’re enforcing in your everyday speech. What? Jo lifts her chin. You heard me. The woman’s smile collapses. Well, I will certainly take that into consideration. A pause. Xie looks at his hands, white tendons painted over black gloves. Flex. Unflex. The woman pushes herself up from the step. Nice to see you, Jo. They watch her go. God, who was that, Leni asks. My dad’s boss, Jo says, lighting a cigarette. His boss? Leni’s mouth open. Oh my god. Xie shakes his head, You say “guys” all the time. And Jo’s grin, Yeah, but I’m not a clueless twat, so. Shrug, dragging on the cigarette. They sit until the candy bowl is empty, then heave up from the porch, striking through the crowd, out beyond the circle of yellow light toward the woods. Xie pinches Jo’s cigarette from her fingers. Don’t. Folding the warm butt into his pocket. A year ago she would have rolled her eyes but now she nods, Sorry, sorry. No flashlights. Strong moon. Is it full? Leni squinting. Nah. Almost, though. No birch here but thousands of ash, sweetgum, deep red leaves gone black in the dark. Impossible not to step on the seedlings, there are so many, and no paths; his hand on Leni’s shoulder, stepping where she steps. We should sleep out here, Jo says. Leni grimaces. I don’t want to get eaten. No one is going to eat you, Jo scoffs. Except Jo, Xie says, a moment too late but they still crack up, hushed, the light of the party dwindling behind them.