with a lazy scuffing of the soles of an old pair vans and the faint jangle of a belt chain, Rodrick Heffley was on his way to the Jefferson residence to retrieve his little brother for the rest of the day. mom and dad we being insufferable about him taking both of his little brothers out tonight for Halloween. but he had other plans. a house party hosted by one of the more popular girls that had a thing for Rodrick, but he never cared enough to learn her name.

his earbuds beat into his eardrums wildly as he walked along cracked pavement, something hard and heavy with bending notes and near-screams ripping from the electric guitar. gutteral and deep. high-pitched and low. drums, bass, singing — or screaming. he tugged out a small paper, creased in pressed foldes that created four messy squares of pinched parchment. he stared down at the ink. the address. shrugging, he turned down another street. down the sidewalk. leaves blowing in the breeze. his jacket clinging to his tall, thin frame.

minutes later, he wanders up the driveway of a decently sized home. the yard littered with decorations — an inflatable of snoopy sitting on a pumpkin, plastic skeleton hands reaching out from the dirt and lining the stepping-stone pathway, a witch hanging from the tree in the yard with fishing line to make it appear as if it were flying. pumpkins were carved out and sitting on the porch steps, along with an actual black cat sleeping on the porch swing, stretched out along the old cushions, white paint chipping from the wood of the swing.

he pulled himself onto the porch, tugging out and earbud and reaching for the doorbell, forefinger pressing into the button as it rang throughout the house, even heard from outside. he settled there with his hands in his pockets, glancing down at the sleeping cat curling over itself in the porch swing cushions.