It’s Thanksgiving, and I’m standing in front of a pumpkin patch with Freddie, squinting at the orange bulbs scattered around the field. He’s holding a pumpkin, turning it over in his hands like he’s inspecting a rare artifact, but I know he’s just trying to find the perfect one. His determination is kind of cute, I have to admit.

“Do you think this one’s good enough?” he asks, holding it up to me. It’s clearly too small, but I’m not going to burst his bubble.

“Perfect,” I say, grinning. “It's very... Freddie-sized.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, real funny.”

I reach over and grab a much bigger one, much more suited for what we’re actually trying to do—carve the perfect pumpkin. Freddie snorts when he sees it, and I can’t help but laugh.

After we find our pumpkins, we head over to the table where the carving tools are laid out. Freddie immediately starts working on his, and I watch as he focuses intently, his tongue sticking out slightly. It’s a side of him I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing—the goofy, determined side. He’s the best at finding humor in the simplest things.

“I’m thinking a spooky face,” he says, glancing up at me with a smirk.

“Spooky? You mean a pumpkin that looks like it’s about to ask for help?”

“Hey! It’s supposed to look eerie,” he protests, but he’s already laughing at himself. “You’re probably going to make yours look like a princess or something.”