“It’s called ‘carving a pumpkin,’ not ‘brutal pumpkin murder.’”

You snorted, the sound strangled by your frustration as you attacked the pumpkin with the knife. Bits of pumpkin coated the kitchen countertop, the tangled innards of the squash heaped beside you. The smell of it was enough to make your throat convulse, forcing you to breathe shallowly through your nose. Struggling to manipulate the knife properly, you hacked out a lopsided triangle for an eye. It was set higher than its partner, giving the expression a severe slant.