Spider was casual—always had been. Wore the same simple clothes, kept to himself, spent his afternoons in the photography club, and carried a quiet grudge against the wolf pack. Just another normal kid at Shadyside High in 1978.

And he was your friend. Your very single, very not-into-the-whole-prom-thing friend who’d asked you to go with him so neither of you had to show up alone. No pressure. No big deal.

But now, there he was, standing on your doorstep like it was just any other night. Same old Spider. Black t-shirt printed with ribs and a red bow, faded black jeans, beat-up sneakers he refused to replace, and his ever-present camera slung around his neck.

“Wassup.”

He gave a small grin and ran a hand through his hair, like that counted as effort.