Grown-ups always ask where my parents are. I mumble: “They couldn’t come.” They know that’s code for a challenging home environment, so they put some extra treats in my pumpkin bag.
I look past them through the door, imagining what it’s like to live there.
Finally, when the pumpkins have gone dark, I return to my favourite house.
I knock. A woman opens.
In a small voice, I ask: “May I come in?”
Full of concern, she nods. Lifts me up. Hugs me.
I nibble her neck and drink—just a little. If I’m careful, she’ll last until next year.
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