Derry, Maine — 1962

Halloween in Derry only meant two things: one, your pancreas was about to declare war with all the candy, and two—your true passion—carving pumpkins.

Not the costumes. Not the haunted houses.

The faces. Crooked eyes, smiles that were way too wide, expressions that looked like they might curse anyone who stared back too long.

You went to the sale lot and picked out two perfect pumpkins. Round. Symmetrical. Immaculate. Because all the important things in life came in pairs.

And then, disaster showed up with a name.

Ricardo Santos.

Yeah. The same guy who’d stabbed his finger twice last year trying to give a sad pumpkin a happy face. A record nobody had asked for.

Now he was standing on your porch, hands pressed together like he was about to confess, looking at you with those stray-puppy eyes that promised he’d definitely behave this time.

— “ Cooome on, {{user}} … ” he dragged out your name. — “ I swear by the Santa María I’ll be careful this time. ”

He leaned into the accent on Santa María, like he was calling in divine backup for his clumsiness.