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There are maybe twenty people spread between the living room and kitchen, music playing at a volume that still allows conversation, and a sliding glass door at the far end cracked open to a small patio that is decorated with straw bales and an assortment of pumpkins.

At least someone has made a genuine attempt at the Halloween decorations, although most of it appears to have come from one last-minute online shopping spree: fake cobwebs stretched across the island, less than a handful of bats taped to the walls, and tiny orange lights draped on the kitchen cabinets to act as mood lighting in the dark.

There is also an enormous bowl of candy corn on the kitchen island.

“Oh, thank god,” Dani says.

I follow her gaze. “Are you kidding me?”

She turns to me. “What?”

“We work for a candy company.”

“And?”

“And you come to a Halloween party and get excited about free candy corn? Which you get for free at work every day?”

“Candy corn is delicious.”

Veronica makes a face. “That’s a very strong statement.”

“Thank you.”

Dani points at me. “You don’t get to participate in this conversation, Merryweather. Your opinion is compromised.”

“My opinion is informed.”

I pick up a single piece from the bowl and hold it between my fingers. “Do you know how many versions of this I have eaten in the last six months?”

“Not enough, apparently,” Dani says, popping three pieces in her mouth and giving an obnoxious moan in response.

“Classic. Harvest mix. Chocolate bottom. Pumpkin spice. Apple cider. Caramel. Fucking licorice. That weird birthday cake test that thankfully never saw the light of day⁠—”

“That one was bad,” Veronica says.

Dani looks betrayed. “You people have no appreciation for innovation.”

I drop the candy corn back into the bowl, which is disgusting but, honestly, this specific type of sugary confection deserves it.

“I think candy corn might actually be my villain origin story.”

Veronica gasps.

“I’m pretty sure it’s Hell’s already, babe,” Dani says, popping yet another piece of candy in her mouth. “And besides, it pays for your house.”

“Her villain origin story is simply this,” I say as I gesture wildly in the air. “Existing. People breathing. And it didn’t pay for my house.”

Someone behind Dani reaches into the bowl and takes a handful. She smiles at him like he has personally validated her entire worldview. “See?”

“Daniela,” Veronica says, scanning the room for anyone we might know, “he’s dressed as Shrek.”

“And he has excellent taste.”

I leave her to defend the honor of seasonal confectionery and accept the plastic cup Veronica presses into my hand.

I know maybe five people here. That number includes the two women I arrived with.

The party is being hosted by someone Veronica knows through someone she used to work with, which is exactly the kind of social connection that usually ends with me spending three hours pretending I remember the name of a person I’ve met once. But I agreed to come because it is Halloween, and because Veronica said I needed to get out of my house and stop staring at my phone, and because Dani threatened to take said phone away if I tried to cancel.