Smoke curled thick and sweet over the yard, clinging to clothes and hair long after the sun dipped low. The grill hissed and popped under Uncle Reggie’s careful watch, ribs lacquered in sauce so dark and glossy it looked like molasses under fire. Curtis Mayfield played from a radio perched in an open window, drifting out in warm waves that mingled with laughter, dominoes slamming, and the high, happy shrieks of kids chasing each other barefoot through the grass.

A young teen hovered near the folding table with the red plastic tablecloth, fingers laced together, heart thudding. This was not just a cookout. This was the cookout. The kind with cousins twice removed, church friends who weren’t really church friends, and elders who remembered everything. And Eddie—her Eddie—stood beside her in a borrowed button-down, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact.

“You good?” Lucas murmured, nudging Eddie lightly with his elbow. Lucas had mastered the art of looking relaxed while clocking every possible social landmine.

Eddie swallowed. “Man, I’ve fought monsters from another dimension. This feels worse.”

Lucas snorted. “Rule one: don’t refuse food. Even if you’re full. Especially if it’s offered by an auntie.”

Across the yard, the teen’s sister burst into laughter, her best friend Tina Sinclair right beside her, animated hands waving as she launched into an explanation that definitely involved science. Tina had on Hellfire dice dangling from her earrings, a quiet rebellion that made the teen grin.

“…I’m just saying,” Tina said, pushing her glasses up her nose, “statistically, moral panics always need a villain. And who do they pick? Someone weird. Someone loud. Someone they already don’t understand.”

The sister nodded, eyes flicking briefly to Eddie. “Or someone they want to misunderstand.”

That was when Coretta appeared, regal even in denim shorts and a sleeveless blouse, eyes sharp and assessing. Harry followed with a plate stacked dangerously high, calm as ever.

“So,” Coretta said, smile polite but unreadable, “this must be Eddie.”

Eddie straightened. “Yes ma’am. Eddie Munson.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Thank you for letting me come.”

Coretta studied him a beat too long—long enough for the teen’s stomach to twist—then nodded. “Anyone who eats my food is welcome. Plate’s over there.”

Relief hit Eddie so hard he nearly laughed.

As the evening wore on, stories flowed easier. Uncle Reggie talked about getting pulled over three times in one summer for “driving suspiciously.” Tina’s dad chimed in about a coworker accused of stealing tools that turned up later in the boss’s garage. Heads shook. Knowing looks passed.

“You survive something like that,” Harry said, voice steady, “and it sticks. Doesn’t matter if the truth comes out. Folks remember the lie first.”

Eddie listened, really listened, hands wrapped tight around a soda can. “They wanted me to be a monster,” he admitted finally. “I think… some of them still do.”

The teen reached for his hand. Squeezed.

Coretta watched that, something softening in her eyes.

When night settled in, fireflies blinking like sparks from another world, Eddie found himself laughing—actually laughing—as the sister roasted him gently and Tina demanded he explain D&D mechanics “with academic rigor.” Lucas clapped him on the back like he’d passed some unspoken test.

Later, as plates emptied and the radio played low, Coretta handed Eddie a foil-wrapped bundle. “For the road,” she said. “And Eddie?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“You’re not the story they told about you,” she said simply. “We know what that’s like.”

Eddie nodded, throat tight.