“Hurry up, Uncle Brent,” my nephew, Dennis, hollered from downstairs.
I craned my neck over the banister and yelled back, “Where are we hurrying to?”
Dennis, for some odd reason, was dressed in a pirate costume: a shiny black eyepatch slung across his face, a plastic hook atop his fist, and a hat two sizes too big drooping over his forehead. He stared up at me, his head tilted to the side, a smile big and wide and bright plastered from ear to ear. “Where are we hurrying to?” he repeated with the type of sigh that only a seven-year-old could pull off. “It’s Halloween, Uncle Brent. You’re going trick or treating with us.”
I gulped. “Us?” It was then my brother and his wife appeared on either side of my nephew, one dressed like Peter Pan, the other, from what I could gather, like Wendy. De
