“We’ve got to get that junk out of the attic sometime soon,” my mom tells me.
I flip a page in the book I’m reading. “You mean you’ve got to get that junk out of the attic?”
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Halloween was my favorite holiday. Every year, my best friend Sam and I ventured into the night with one goal in mind: bring home enough candy to last until Christmas. To accomplish this, we stuck to the north side of town — a rich neighborhood that gave out choice candy bars and other sweets. One house even made caramel apples. Sam and I both agreed, however, that the best house in the neighborhood was 465 Andover Court. Unlike the others that shelled out candy at the door, or hosted apple-bobbing competitions on their front porches, 465 Andover brought their Halloween party to the front lawn. The young couple that lived there set up a grill and several lawn chairs, and served hot dogs and burgers to all the cold, tired, and hungry trick-or-treaters.
I met the old man for the first time in a lone shack on the edge of a forest. My father and I had to cross the creek that continued a mile into town. It was raining that night and I was cold, so he ended up carrying me to the other side, his hands under my arms. The earth on the bank of the river cradled our feet like a wet pillow. He gripped my small, clammy hand and pulled me from the cattails into the shadow of the shed.
One Hour Later
The body will be cold. Everyone will have expected this. No one will be surprised. |