Page 38 of Cold Comeback
"That's not inspirational," Linc called from the yard, where he was jamming glow sticks into empty beer cans and calling it budget Halloween ambiance. "That's concerning."
Bricks emerged from the house carrying a pumpkin nearly the size of his torso. "Drake, where do you want the jack-o'-lantern supplies?"
"Kitchen table. And Bricks? We're carving these like our lives depend on it."
Two hours later, the kitchen looked like a pumpkin massacre. Orange guts clung to every surface, seeds scattered across the floor, and three grown men stood covered in pulp, wielding carving knives like we were preparing for ritualistic sacrifice.
"I can't feel my fingers," Bricks whined, holding up his hands. They were stained orange and shaking slightly.
I lowered my head. "That's the pumpkin paralysis setting in. Very common. Gone by Thanksgiving."
Pluto launched a handful of pumpkin innards at my head. "Pumpkin gut fight!"
"You're all children," Knox muttered from the doorway, but he was already rolling up his sleeves.
The war was swift and brutal.
"Cleanup's going to suck," Linc observed, digging seeds out of his hair.
"Worth it." I surveyed the carnage with pride. "But first—Pumpkin Pong."
"Pumpkin what now?"
I held up two small pumpkins I'd hollowed out earlier. "Like beer pong, but seasonal."
"I love everything about this," Bricks chimed in.
Knox grumbled. "Of course you do."
By the time Gideon showed up at eight, we'd set the knives aside, played four rounds of Pumpkin Pong (Pluto was surprisingly deadly accurate), consumed enough beer to float a small boat, and somehow managed to get most of the pumpkin guts off the walls.
Gideon stepped through the front door, looked at the elaborate spiderweb setup, the glowing beer can luminaries, and the jack-o'-lantern army grinning from every available surface, and said, "This is a fire hazard."
His deadpan delivery made me grin so wide my cheeks hurt. "Probably."
That's when Grimmy clomped in from the kitchen, still in full mascot gear, holding a Polaroid camera like a weapon. "Smile, degenerates." The flash went off, catching Pluto mid–pumpkin chug.
"He doesn't even need a costume," Linc muttered, shielding his eyes.
Grimmy took a bow. "Every major event needs a historian."
Something shifted in Gideon's expression—the barest softening around his eyes. "It all looks good, though."
"Told you he'd love it", Linc whispered loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear.
"Nobody said love."
The doorbell rang, followed immediately by a familiar voice calling, "Thatcher? You better not be dead in there!"
My stomach dropped. "Oh, shit."
"Who's that?" Bricks asked.
I was already moving toward the door. "My sister."
Gina stood on our now-gloriously decorated porch, holding a duffel bag and wearing the same look she'd worn when she picked me up from the ER after I tried a backyard ramp trick at twelve. The duffel bag bulged with her standard kit: antacids, athletic tape, and the crossword book she never left behind.
"Gina?" I blinked. "What are you—how did you—"
