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The first time he scares the guy, Alex is sweating through dollar-store grease paint and dressed as a carnival hawker.
His striped vest is dirty, and there are artistic and aesthetic tears in his pants. The polyester material chafes against his skin. But that's what Alex gets for tearing open the Spooky Circus Guy costume thrown in his direction on the first night of this shitshow and not checking if he should wear a barrier between the costume and his chest. It smells like the sweet plastic that permeates every Spirit Halloween store. Theirs popped up in an old Circuit City this year.
Honestly, the costume makes no sense, seeing as the haunted house Alex waves people into resembles neither a circus nor a house. It's some slap-shod mom-and-pop maze on an acre of property usually reserved for a kitschy, family-friendly pumpkin patch, called Haunt-O-Stroll (name pending). When the permits fell through for hayrides, the owners converted the paths into a walking route next to old shacks, overgrown hedges, and the half-dismantled backdrops from the local high school's production of Beetlejuice.
Alex had asked during his job interview—they insisted on conducting them, even if he didn't hear of anyone who was actually turned away from the part-time gig—what the theme was. Mr. Richards said scary. Scary is more of a lifestyle than the theme, but Alex didn't correct him. Maybe he should have.
(He's seen the electrical box connecting most of the outdoor lighting and scuffed hydraulics, held together by old wiring and even older duct tape. That was terrifying enough.)
Scaring people for a job seemed like easy money. He answered a newspaper ad for a couple extra bucks at night and on the weekends during October. He's starting to regret it. A group of dudebros hanging over their girlfriends reek of weed and hoppy beer, already rowdy and shouting strings of curses at one another. And kind of at Alex, who has done nothing but stand there, partially obscured by the fog that the machine pumps non-stop.
Alex realizes he should have asked about insurance and liabilities. Security is lax, made up of volunteers from the employee pool. If he scares the wrong person, he'll probably have to dodge a fist to the face. Like, fifty-fifty percent chance. They were told they weren't allowed to touch anyone, which fair. But that's not going to stop the patrons of this fine, half-assed establishment from retaliating if Alex is too spooky.
Impossible, he thinks.
Tonight, the first of a dozen nights in Alex's foreseeable future, he's stationed at the entrance because "his face could convince anyone to come inside." That's distinctly un-spooky.
But the sounds of horrified patrons and a well-timed oh fuck no! deep inside the house-maze-whatever-this-is don't exactly entice people to venture further. It's an uphill battle that Alex, and Alex alone, has to fight—or else people will start asking for refunds.
He suspects the screaming behind him is the reason for the hesitation from the two guys approaching—any rational person hearing blood-curdling cries against the unsettling ambient noise of children's music would not head toward the sounds. Alex's job depends on people not being rational.
The organizers gave Alex a box to stand on. To set the stage. To play the part. Not because he was too short; he had explicitly asked for clarification. So he does a spectacular, albeit a little showy, jump from his platform to land in front of the two of them.
"Come inside, won't you?" Alex tries, appearing pretty obviously through the cloud of white, opaque-ish smoke. Well, he thought it was obvious.
The one guy startles, so fully and completely by Alex's sudden appearance in front of him that he yelps. Actually, yelps, all high-pitched and squeaky. His friend laughs. And they both scurry away into the house-maze-Halloween disaster.
Alex is a little stunned. His first real scare, and he didn't even get to say the whole speech he had to learn for the part. Even if it's cheesy as fuck. There are ghost puns, for Christ's sake.
Oh, well.
The second time, it's a fluke. Some kind of strange universal coincidence. A saying comes to mind, something something about how he'd have two nickels, and it's weird that it happened twice.
"Are these safe?" Alex asks as he's handed a sanded-down chainsaw. It looks and sounds like a chainsaw, and weighs a fuckton. Alex can tell his biceps are going to be burning by the end of his shift, but the thing is stripped of all the dangerous bits. Or so he's told.
"Yeah, noise only," Nora says, patting his cheek as she turns it on for him, instructing him how to lock the throttle to keep it idling and where to pull the starter when he's close enough to tonight's guests.
"What if someone runs into it?" Alex asks.
Nora squints at him. "They should be running away from you."
"Yeah, but—"
"Good luck, don't kill anyone." She is so not fucking helpful.
He's not allowed to speak when he's in costume tonight, them's the rules. Or the vibe. He doesn't really understand why chainsaw-wielding biker zombies from the Black Lagoon or whatever can't speak. He can't even grunt menacingly.
Alex wanders tentatively around the edges of their scare area, the outdoor space between the poltergeist shack and The Ritual Chamber. Nora told him that "it's fucked up in there and smells like bologna and feet." Alex does not want to be assigned there.
Quintessential 80s pop, including a never-ending dubstep version of Michael Jackson's "Thriller", plays on loop out of hidden speakers and is subsequently drowned out by the cacophony of the constant revving of engines. His coworker, Hunter, is being a super dick to anyone who tries to avoid him. Alex feels like he needs to intervene, even if that means scaring people with his own stupid chainsaw.
He steps out from behind a stack of rotting crates, ripping the pullcord so hard he worries he might have snapped it, and there—there.
It's the guy and his friend. And the same thing happens again, but ten times worse. This time, it's not a short involuntary burst of fear but a full-out scream. Just the worst kind, piercing and hoarse. Possibly louder than the small machinery in Alex's hands. And then he's gone, literally running through the area to the next part of the haunted house.
"Mate, wait!" His friend gives chase, howling with laughter.
Hunter gives Alex a thumbs up on a job well done. Alex ignores him.
This is the third time this week Alex has jumped out from behind his assigned spot to see him. It's getting, quite frankly, a little ridiculous.
Maybe he likes the adrenaline rush. Or it's some kind of exposure therapy for a previous haunted house phobia. Or he's a masochist, intent on keeling over from extreme fear in his mid-twenties. Either way, the guy—blond, tall, unfairly attractive, and easily spooked—is screaming like Alex is actually murdering him and not just waving a plastic, fake-blood-coated knife in his face.
The guy bolts before Alex can whisper a stealthy sorry. He does feel bad, which is probably counterproductive to his whole part-time scare-actor schtick. But, well. He can't help it.
Scaring people is not really all it's cracked up to be. Alex wants to be good at his job. But maybe, by the shrieks and continual running, he's too good. Veering into bad territory.
It's giving him a complex. And he still has two weeks to go.
A parent complains that the abandoned orphanage section of this Festival of Fears (name pending) is too scary to bring her kids. So, naturally, Alex is assigned there when he clocks in the following week.
He can't tell what he's more offended by: that the organizers think he's babyfaced to pull off a kid or that they believe he's short enough to. Alex spends most of his downtime between groups complaining to Nora, who is also stationed with him as Victorian Girl #4. Her costume is a recycled French maid dress that hangs around her knees and a dubious stain on the skirt.
She snaps his suspenders for his attention when he starts staring off at the fake windows of the house they are allegedly haunting.
"You're supposed to be creepy. Not moody. Make scares, not friends," Nora says, parroting the sign hung up in the break room in Basic White Girl Autumn live-laugh-love cursive font.
Alex frowns. "I'm not moody."
"You're literally making the human equivalent of the sad face emoji."
"I'm a dead orphan in one of the Newsies costumes that I think—" He wiggles his index finger into one of the holes of his shirt. "Was eaten by moths." He's having a hard time staying in character.
Nora elbows him in the side with enough force to make him stumble off-balance. "Maybe your boy will be here."
He is not his boy.
Alex regrets telling Nora about him. About how he thought it was weird that he's seen him so many times. About how he seems to be only scared by Alex so comprehensively that he scatters until they cross paths again. Nora thought it was something else bringing the guy back here night after night and then refused to explain what that something else was. He hates it when she does this.
But, then. Yeah, fine. The guy is here again, and Alex thinks Nora might be on to something. Alex watches him cling to a young woman who shares a smattering of his features, whispering loudly, "Bea, I don't know how much more of this I can take." British, nice. Unexpected. And, unfortunately for Alex's current growing attraction to him, hot.
Alex grabs Nora and drags her to the front porch of the house, being loud and conspicuous and not remotely terrifying. He forgets they are covered in a sticky white powder to make them seem dead—deader, actually. No matter how hard Alex attempts to lessen his frightening presence, he still manages to scare the fucking shit out of the guy when they appear on the steps of the house. The guy's whole body locks up, his fingers clawing deeply into the meat of the girl, Bea's, arm.
Don't run, don't run, don't run. Alex thinks as if he could telepathically command this stranger, this stupidly beautiful stranger, to stay. Exchange names, maybe. Like the absolute bare minimum. He's been here enough times; it's the most committed relationship Alex has been in.
The guy recovers, opens his mouth to maybe say actual words that aren't just terrorized squawking noises, and then—Nora fucking ruins it.
Shit, he nearly forgot she was with him.
She springs out from behind Alex, like they planned their joint-scare, a practiced bait-and-switch. The problem is: Nora surprises him, and Alex howls out a truly unmanly shout, which just dominoes the whole situation because the guy also shouts because Alex did, which means Bea unexpectedly screams, and then everyone is screaming, and it's a mess.
God, Alex is so bad at his job.
On a random Thursday, Alex is a gnarly-looking scarecrow with a plastic pumpkin shoved over his head in the corn maze. Maze is really overselling the space. It's just an unmanicured thicket with sharp thistles that Alex keeps snagging his thrift-store flannel shirt on. A choice he made in a rush because it smelled relatively clean and was free of questionable stains. He should have known better.
When recounting the situation later to Nora when they carpool back to the apartment, this is where he'd likely figure out problem number one.
To keep up appearances and give more effort to this job than anyone in their right mind should because he's a goddamn overachiever (thank you very much), Alex shoves actual hay into his sleeves and collar.
Problem number two.
Within the first hour, he's so fucking itchy that he backs into one of the bushes to not-so-discreetly dig his hands into his shirt to scratch. When he tries to move away and speculate if their off-brand first-aid kit has some antihistamines for what might be an allergic reaction to the costume being washed in Tide, Alex realizes he's properly grappled by a dumb plant.
Problem number three.
Alone this time, he can't ask for help. In fact, the more he moves to escape, the more intertwined his shirt and the thorns become. He can hear people approaching, and he knows how unfrightening he is trapped and struggling to untangle himself from the leaves. So Alex does the only logical option there is left: he takes off the shirt.
The guy appears in Alex's section of the maze right as Alex peels himself out of the flannel, hay falling everywhere. Somehow, in the struggle of Alex v. Hedge, his helmet dislodges and tumbles to the ground.
Maybe it's the unexpectedness of it all—shirtless, breathing heavily, the noisy surprising clatter of Alex losing his head, literally and figuratively—that sends the guy running. Maybe it's just Alex.
Regardless, Alex is beginning to recognize that scream anywhere.
The following Friday, Alex finds out his name.
Not because he asked. Not because he met the guy outside of this haunted attraction of safety violations. Not because he overheard it in some casual conversation. Not because he managed not to scare him.
Being stationed in the ghost-slash-mannequin room is freaking him out, mostly because he knows he's alone. He knows. Logically, it's just him in here. But holy fuck.
The only people that come through here are the ones he's supposed to scare. But in between groups, when he's surrounded by stationary, human-shaped, sheet-covered statues in silence, his brain begins playing tricks on him. He starts on an insane brain spiral of things like what if: What if all the mannequins come to life? What if someone else is actually here with him and doubling down on the super-stillness until he doesn't expect it? What if he's a mannequin and is having some existential crisis about what it means to be a real boy? What is real, anyway?
He knew he shouldn't have tried those knock-off snacks in the break room. ("How bad can they be?" Alex had asked Nora, shoving a stack of Prongles in his mouth, and washing them down with a cup of Dr. Perky.)
Alex fidgets, knowing he's never been good at staying still, and he's wondering now if he low-key poisoned himself when he appears. He cuts through all of Alex's mental panic, and in his excitement to no longer be alone, Alex says, rather loudly, "Hey."
Wrong move.
Later, while Alex stress-eats hot cheese-flavored Detos, Nora appears and rips the bag out of his hand.
"It's Henry," she says.
"What's Henry?" Alex asks. The chips taste like ashes and are similar to licking a battery, but if consuming them helps his bid to fake an illness and not have to go back out there alone, he'll suffer through. It's also keeping his mind off the other reason why he wants to hide out in the break room.
"Your boy. Mr. Screams-A-Lot. His name is Henry."
Oh. Henry. Alex has a second to think about how the name suits him before reality comes crashing back in. "Fuck, is he okay?"
Nora shrugs. "I mean, he did slam into the doorway running away from you and almost dislocated his shoulder, but he's not suing. So, we're employed another day."
Alex should be relieved. Despite the whole Halloween Hell Hole (name pending) and his own misgivings about scaring people, this job pays well. A lawsuit would shut the place down. Permanently. And he needs the money. School isn't going to pay for itself.
But the other part of him, the one that had worried over the guy, Henry, and his well-being after the disastrous exit into a doorway instead of out of it, knows there is no way he's returning to this shitty sideshow that almost took him out.
Alex frowns. He can't help it. He's disappointed.
"I see that face," Nora says, stealing some of the Detos and immediately gagging.
"You saw nothing. My face was silent," Alex says, kicking at her foot.
"You'll get another chance, Alejandro. At this rate, maybe you'll get one digit of his number by Christmas."
He rolls his eyes and grabs his sheet—no, costume. "Nora, there is no way he's coming back. Would you?"
She scoffs. "No."
"See?"
Given their constant need for one-ups-manship, Nora proposes a bet anyway.
Henry does come back. And Alex owes Nora five bucks.
He comes back on the night Alex pairs off with Nora to play out some freaky Frankenstein-style doctor-nurse duo inside The Ritual Chamber. Messing around with fake guts and rubber organs seem to appease a group of unchaperoned tweens but makes Henry flee like he's going to be sick. (It does smell like a moldy Lunchable, and Alex has to shower twice to get the smell off him later that night.)
He comes back when Alex is a nameless cultist, chanting fake Latin and reaching out to grab guests as 'sacrifices' for a sacred ceremony to bring forth the devil. (Another Karen complains about the heavy overtones of satanic propaganda, and they have to refund her whole party of ten for the inconvenience.) Henry doesn't stay to see if their summoning is successful, but to be honest, Hunter doing a poor rendition of the Prince of Darkness is a nightmare no one can unsee. Alex tried. Henry is probably better off.
He comes back when Alex shambles around a scare zone as a run-of-the-mill zombie. No chainsaws. He's allowed to make undead sounds—guttural groans and gurgling moans only. But Nora is here, too, and they get into a contest of who can be loudest and how much they can get away with without breaking character. Each noise becomes aggressively more sexual until Alex, on the brink of crushing Nora, turns around to pornographically moan right in Henry's direction. Alex watches him nearly trip over his own feet, unable to get away fast enough.
He comes back when Alex spends the evening in the Murder Hallway. A misnomer, actually, considering the corridor is covered in glow-in-the-dark graffiti with several black lights that give off an ear-splitting buzz, one blown fuse away from a fire hazard. No actual murder happens.
Alex pops his head out of his “boo hole” to catch Henry staggering backward into the opposite wall, hands up, to block any murderers. Just in case.
"Christ," Henry shouts, then puts a hand to his chest. Alex wonders if his heart is about to explode. He knows CPR, he's relatively sure he could crawl out of this hole in record time to assist. But he also doesn't want to fill out another incident report or to christen the Murder Hallway with accidental homicide.
He should probably say something like hi or I'm Alex, but all he gets out is, "Uhhh." Alex blinks. Henry blinks. He attempts more words, but Henry makes a frantic scramble in the opposite direction.
Alex feels like that meme of the guy looking at a butterfly and asking if it's a pigeon. Is this flirting or is he just hypnotized by the way the purple-blueish glow seemed to accentuate Henry's features in low light? Both, probably.
Next time, next time—because if Henry hasn't given up by now, Alex is positive that he's going to march his fine ass (yes, he's looked, so what?) back here for the main event—Alex is determined to get a normal introduction. If he's lucky, maybe a phone number, but he's not going to jinx it.
Alex’s chance comes on Halloween.
The Richards & Sons Hallo-Scream-a-Thon Spooktacular Horror Jamboree™ (confusingly trademarked) is packed. There are literal wait times to get in. A brand new sign in front of the ticketing booth warns "Due to the EXTREME NATURE of this event, those with the following conditions are urged not to experience this attraction"—with heart conditions and fear of enclosed spaces right at the top.
Alex finally, finally, gets assigned to the easiest gig in this whole place: masquerading as a sexy, half-naked vampire in a nightclub. Of course, the nightclub is just coffins for sofas, other scare actors pretending to drink blood, and red-tinged atmospheric lighting. It's as if the Blade vampires, the Underworld vampires, and just, like, the entire Lestat-in-a-band era had a weird black sheep child that can't be attributed to any franchise due to potential copyright infringement.
The wildest EDM remixes of Halloween songs are pumping through the recessed speakers. The heavy bass thumps nearly in time with strobe effects that go off every few minutes. Alex spends most of the evening twirling on the makeshift dance floor, flipping his cape around (because apparently vampires wear capes but are allergic to shirts), and bearing his relatively impressive life-like fangs.
A frat guy spills beer on him. Another girl from a bachelorette party tries and fails to grind up against him, and she has to be escorted out. Some couple actually gets turned around inside the club and decide they are just going to sit down on one of the set piece couches. Halfway through the night, Alex has to change his faux leather pants to ripped jeans that are stained with the remnants of a blood capsule because he split the seams doing an impressive squat.
He chugs some water—which is kind of impossible with the fangs in—and shoves earplugs in to save his hearing. He's feeling moderately embarrassed for going commando and intends to reconsider the lack of foresight for underwear later when he spots Henry slinking into the "club".
Alex swings around, one-handed, on the not-a-stripper-pole that is configured inconveniently in the middle of the room. When Alex asked why they didn't install it somewhere else less obstructive, he was told in no uncertain terms that the pole is load-bearing and is integral to the structural integrity of the ceiling. And possibly the floor.
That doesn't stop Alex from using the momentum and all of his weight to bodily throw himself directly into the path of Henry, who, like the couple, is also lost within the confines of The Blood Basement. (Worst club name ever.)
Alex takes the opportunity, the carpe diem believer that he is, to shout, "Hey Henry!"
And Henry? He turns sharply to the sound of his name. Stares at Alex. Like, really stares him down. Alex can feel his eyes, wide and round and blue in the strobe lights, piercing into him. Alex definitely doesn't mind. Hell, he knows the jeans are a size too small. He knows he's glistening with baby oil even though he's not sure about the lore around vampires and perspiration. He knows that he's showing off a little as he flexes his grip on the pole to make the muscles in his arms stand out.
He feels hot in his cheeks and a cold shiver down his spine, and he can't stop staring at Henry's mouth. Henry isn't screaming, presenting Alex with a sliver of hope that he can make this thing between them work. Even while dressed as a mediocre extra from True Blood.
But then Henry's eyes go wider, his lips part in the start of a shout, a yell, or something else entirely (Alex can't actually hear him over the music), and then he, well—
He passes out.
Fuck.
There is this clause in his contract that when he signed it, Alex believed wouldn't be an issue. Some corporate bulllshit that included chain of command vis-a-vis onsite response. Law school legalese assisted in the translation: whoever arrives first at the scene of the incident is in charge of the incident.
Since Alex caused the incident, he gets the luxury of escorting (carrying) Henry to the medical tent (the storage closet behind the concession stand) while he's still unconscious. There's a cot from an outdated camping pack, the first aid kit (shockingly stocked with ibuprofen, gauze, alcohol wipes, and an EpiPen that isn't expired), and a box labeled Lost & Found. Alex nearly trips over the red umbrella that has been in there since the first day that no one has come back to claim.
One of the managers, Amy, checks in with Alex, mumbles something about this guy again, and asks if they need to call 911. Henry groans on cue, which is both good and bad, as the radio at Amy's hip—when the fuck did they have radios?—crackles with another emergency.
She leaves Alex to handle it while Henry shifts and comes to, groggy but not bleeding. One more point in the I Didn't Totally Fuck This Up List that Alex worriedly started creating the second Henry hit the ground to the opening notes of "Heads Will Roll" on the dance floor.
It doesn't stop the immediate panic-induced ramble that tumbles out of Alex's mouth. "Oh god. Good, you're awake? How's your head? Can you sit up? Should you sit up? Wait, shit—don't sit up. Just—"
Aside from the fact that he's probably ruined any potential chance with Henry, there are other things to worry about too. Sure, he can't get fired; it's the last night of the haunted house. But this is absolutely going to put a damper on, like, a hundred other things. Maybe Henry is more uptight about being put in an unsafe situation for the second time. Maybe he will sue.
Henry still hasn't said anything. In the unforgiving fluorescent lights, Alex knows he probably looks like a horror show. Sweaty, a little dirty, smelling like an old pilsner, and missing half his clothes with a polyester cloak on. It's not exactly the most reassuring medical assistance to wake up to.
"I'm so fucking sorry," Alex continues because he can't seem to shut the fuck up. "I swear it was an accident. And it's also kind of a shitty job because who actually likes scaring people to the point of fainting. You fainted, by the way, I don't know if I said that." He can hear Nora in his head sarcastically commenting on his bedside manners and how unhelpful his blabbing can be.
He's pissed at imaginary Nora, which starts to turn into being annoyed at Henry for remaining silent. "I mean, can you say something? Literally, anything, because right now I'm feeling shitty about almost injuring you twice, not to mention like six other incidents—"
Screams followed by a loud bang that sounds suspiciously like illegal and fireworks interrupt him.
Henry closes his eyes and grabs Alex's arm abruptly. He squeezes so tight the skin around his fingers goes white.
"I hate being scared," Henry says. Like that explains everything.
All right, okay. Fine. Not what Alex expected.
Actually, no, wait. That explains nothing.
"Why did you keep coming back, then?"
Henry inhales and exhales hard. He gives Alex a sharp once over, then noticeably swallows. It takes Alex zero-point-two seconds to figure out the unsubtle silent language Henry is projecting in his direction.
"Me?" Alex asks. Still. He knows it's ridiculous to make Henry repeat it, but since this is their longest conversation to date where Henry isn't running away—technically, he's incapable of running—Alex needs intentions explicitly spelled out.
"You," Henry confirms.
"But all those times—" Henry huffs, growing irritated that Alex isn't getting it. He raises a singular eyebrow as if to say really? Alex finds the contempt stupidly attractive. "Have you ever looked in a mirror? Still you."
Alex can't hide his grin. His momentary self-doubt transforms into something a little more confident, a little more flirty. He mimics Henry's visual perusal, even on this cheap bed. "You're not so bad yourself."
A heated charge of energy crackles between them, and Alex thinks this evening is looking so fucking up. Until the lightbulb above them makes an unsettling pop and goes out, plunging them into darkness. Great, Alex can't see shit.
Henry yelps then swears in his posh voice, and Alex laughs. He likes the way Henry's accent curls around the vulgarities, even if the timing is inappropriate.
"And I'm also employed for the fire marshall," Henry says in the dark. "This place is an atrocious collection of nearly three dozen safety violations."
"Yeah, one hundred percent. I'm fighting for my life here."
He hears a soft amused exhale from Henry, and they lapse into heavy quiet.
Then Henry starts to say, "Perhaps when you're free—"
At the same time, Alex says, "But if you maybe wanted—"
Henry stops talking. Alex stops talking. But Alex is also impatient, decides fuck it, and barrels through with the question. "Maybe I can get your number? Take you out on a date? Somewhere preferably far away from here?"
Alex is positive he can feel the power of Henry's growing smile. "I would like that…?" Henry's voice trails off on the question.
Oh shit, yeah. Alex hasn't even told him his name. They are doing this all backward. He can't wait to explain this to his friends and family when he brings Henry over for dinner.
He's getting ahead of himself. Typical. He needs to start with the basics.
"I'm Alex."
"Henry."
"I know."
"Right, noted. Because of the—" Alex can feel the whooshing of Henry's free hand gesturing to his head. The fainting.
"Yeah," Alex says, and adds, "Do you want to get out of here?"
"Are you not still working?" Henry asks, obviously confused. Concerned. Admittedly, Alex thinks it's endearing even after everything.
"I get the sense that no one is going to miss me."
His eyes are adjusting to the light. Henry hasn't moved his hand from his arm. Alex gets bolder, and wonders if that date can be tonight, when Nora throws open the door.
"Some guy just punched Hunter in the face, and Cash called the cops, and I think we're about to be shut down for real this time and—oh, hey."
Henry's grip digs into his forearm, holding back what probably would have been a spectacular scream. Facing his fears has never looked so irresistible.
Alex, though, is not proud of the frustrated hiss he makes at seeing her, fucking things up again. "Do you mind, we're kind of in the middle of something?"
"Did he kiss you yet?" Nora asks Henry, ignoring Alex completely. Rude. "He's been obsessed with you since, like, forever."
Murder Hallways be damned, Alex is going to kill her right here. Henry, however, looks pleased, and says, "Not yet. But the night is young."
Indeed.
"Bye, Nora," Alex says, taking Henry's hand in his, pulling him off the cot, and making a run for it. No screaming this time.
