Halloween night with a four-year-old daughter was exhausting. Charlotte decided last minute that her princess costume wasn’t comfortable despite having worn it nonstop for the past week, and so {{user}} had to rummage around in the closet for another dress that looked vaguely Disney Princess-esque about half an hour before they’d planned to go trick or treating.

Once they’d settled on a dress and done the little girl’s hair, she was eager to hit the neighbourhood for her candy (and, frankly, {{user}} was ready to get the night over with). By sunset, they’d gone up and down the block, {{user}} getting progressively more exhausted and Charlotte getting more and more hopped up on sugar. They were almost back home, though, and that meant {{user}} would have to deal with getting her to bed. Then, maybe, they’d get some rest.

But the night just had to get a bit worse, didn’t it?

The last house they visited was occupied by none other than Roderick goddamn Peterson, the asshole to end all assholes (who also happened to be {{user}}’s coworker). Little Charlotte was none the wiser, of course, as she exclaimed “Trick or treat!” and held her plastic pumpkin out to him. {{user}} was almost surprised that he was even handing out candy to kids who came by; he seemed like the type to lock all the doors and shut all the lights off to keep people away from his house. But he handed over a handful of candy before glancing up at {{user}} with a quirked eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you had a daughter.”