I was the sober driver that night.

We'd planned it that way because Halloween in our city turns the streets into a kind of

moving carnival, kids and parents on early loops, then packs of 20-somethings in rented costumes

with plastic fangs and glitter wings weaving between bars. Our friend Aaron had a small costume

party at her apartment near the arts district, string lights, bowls of popcorn

dusted with cinnamon sugar, a punch bowl with floating orange slices, and a laughable sign

that said, not poison. I stayed off the punch and kept a bottles of water so I could ferry people

home. It's an easy job in theory. You wait, you stack everyone's coats

by the door, you check the street for your car where you parked a few blocks away, and you do

laps dropping off friends to their apartments. It's only easy if nobody notices you. We spilled

down the stairwell around midnight with the usual messy goodbye.

Aaron insisting we take leftover chips. Marco trying to stuff a fog machine into his backpack until

we talked him down. Lila scooping candy corn into napkins like it was contraband. The five of us,

me, Lila, Marco, Jess, and Ben cut down the block under a wind that had finally picked up and pushed discarded spider-web decorations into snarls along the fences.

We were a harmless group. Lila still had her paper cat ears on, freckled face painted with whiskers that had smudged.

Marco was a cowboy with the hat in his hand and the holster empty.

Jess wore a red cape because she said she didn't have time for anything more involved.

Ben had stripes painted under his eyes like a football player,

though he kept forgetting and wiping one side off every time he rubbed his face.

If you asked me later when exactly I first felt watched,

I would say it was when we turned off the brighter block and onto the side street where I'd

parked.

...