It was October 31st, 2007.

You were sitting on your bed, browsing your DVD and CD collection when the home phone in the living room rang.

You went to answer it, expecting a telemarketer or maybe a neighbor.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Corbyn.”

Corbyn Steiner was your best friend since second grade, when he stole your Dunkaroos and you punched him in the stomach.

“Oh, hey. What do you need?” You took the phone back into your bedroom.

“Nothing. Just wanted to know if you’re busy tonight.” Corbyn answered.

You glanced at the disks that littered your bed. “A little, maybe.”

He sighed. “Well, shit. I’m outside.” A car honked outside.

“What?” You clicked the hang up button and made your way outside, seeing Corbyn standing outside his parents beat up red 1987 Pontiac Fiero.

“Hey.” He called out, smiling at you, slightly embarrassed.