Yo-Yoji think it's gnarly—he says it as he's ripping out seeds and tossing them onto the marble top island instead of the bowl his mom put out. "This could work as a really killer brain, yo!" he exclaims, squeezing the inside in his hand; juice runs down his arm and seeds spill out, and it all makes a gross squelching sound.

Cass is standing next to him, spinning her swiss army knife between her fingers and scrutinizing her gut-less pumpkin, deciding what she's going to carve. She could use one of the kitchen knives Yo-Yoji's mom provided them with, but that wouldn't be very survivalist of her. "Do you have to make a mess?" she asks, internally mulling between carving a duck and carving an instruction manual on a makeshift shelter if you find yourself lost in the woods.

"Of course I do. It's, like, tradition when you're carving pumpkins." He slams a handful of seeds onto the countertop, and they splatter all over. "If you're not making a mess, you're not doing it right."

Max-Ernest presses a careful, gloved finger into the pumpkin through the the hole in the top before gagging at the squelching and yanking his hand away. "I don't want to do it right," he whines.

Cass decides on a duck.

"I'll help you in a second, Max-Ernest," she says, pulling her pumpkin closer to her to start lightly carving the hard skin into a cartoonishly goofy duck.

Yo-Yoji has made a mess. Aside from all the seeds just from the beginning, he's also left pumpkin skin carvings and shavings everywhere, as well as a few trickles of blood form when he nicked his palm with his knife because he was cutting so carelessly.

And then that just scares Max-Ernest. Cass de-guts his pumpkin for him and spends ten minutes trying to convince him that everything will be fine if he just holds the knife, but he doesn't let up. She ends up having to carve the chocolate bar for him for, like, a foot away.

Now the pumpkins are outside on the porch, candles inside them glowing in the dark. The three are huddled around them, Cass' arms crossed, Max-Ernest's hands behind his back like the pumpkin will try try to bite him, and Yo-Yoji's palm bandaged.

She lets her eyes fall closed, relaxed and comfortable even with the pain piercing her chest. She's been sad for so long she doesn't quite know how to be anything else. 

She'd be able to hear the birds chirping and the soft rustling of trees if she wasn't blasting Ethel Cain so loudly she risks hearing damage. She finds herself thinking she 'feels so Ethel Cain', even if she has never actually related to an Ethel Cain song. 

Gabi would also be able to hear the person coming up behind her and saying 'hey, excuse me?' if she wasn't blasting music, but she doesn't. No, she instead feels the touch to her shoulder that makes her shriek and jump. 

–

A laugh. A pebble kicked with the tip of  a shoe. "Hendrik, mate, I can survive a couple weeks without you, you know," he says.

Hendrik's voice crackles over the line: "But can you do it without getting into trouble, Danny?"

Danny sighs dramatically, rolling his head back. Phone pressed to his ear, a hand in his jeans' pocket. The tip of his shoe is digging into the dirt. "That's just unfair."

Hendrik laughs. "What's unfair is that I can't watch over you children right now. You really shouldn't be left to your own devices."

"I've got Josh to watch over me."

"That's worse!" Hendrik exclaims.

Danny chuckles, taking a few idle steps around in a circle. "We'll be fine, Hen," he insists. "Trust me."

"That's really not reassuring," Hendrik says. There's shuffling around on the other end of the line like maybe he's adjusting the way he's sitting. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Danny stops in place and his brows furrow up, face scrunched in confusion. "Then I'm very limited."

A scoff over the phone. "Oh, piss off, mate!"

He laughs again, dipping his head momentarily. "Look, I'll be good. I'll stay out of trouble and be sure not to disparage the reputation of the band or anything. Relax, Hen. You can actually take a break." He shuffles his feet around and turns to the side, glancing around the park aimlessly—until something catches his eye that makes his chest clench up. His fingertips start to feel sweaty. 

Hendrik's dramatic heavy sigh feels so far away now. "Fine, fine. I'll trust you. Be good now, yeah?"

"Um, yeah. Whatever. Bye," Danny mumbles. He pulls his phone away from his ear and hangs up even while Hendrik's mid-goodbye. He's halfway across the park, probably a good four meters away at the end of the dirt path, but those streaks of pink that he can see even from here are making his feet buzz like pins and needles.

It's the ATM girl. The really pretty one who seemed anxious and yet adorably lost. The one he saw barely a half hour ago and was sure he'd lost his chance to talk to.

And now she's right there, alone, basking in the sun—well, the poor excuse they have for a sun here in England.

She closes her eyes and tilts her head up to the sky, and Danny can't help but smile. There's a certain serenity to her right now, an 'eye of the storm' way about her.

It only takes about ten seconds to psyche himself up. Remind himself of all the girls screaming his name every night, of how he's considered suave.

Talking to pretty girls isn't the hard part. Once he gets going it's almost hard to stop, flirty comments and compliments rolling off his tongue naturally.

It's the actually starting up a conversation part that trips him up. Sometimes he chickens out just on the way up to her.

So, he psyches himself up. Shakes off the nerves until he's just left with cocky charm and approaches her. 

"Hey, excuse me?" he says, at a volume he considers rather fair, but she doesn't move. Doesn't flinch or even acknowledge his existence. 

Honestly, he can hear the music playing through her earbuds even from here. 

So he reaches over and touches her lightly on the shoulder. 

Danny stumbles back in surprise when she shrieks and jumps away from him. Eyes wide, he raises both hands up in defense. "Whoa," he mumbles as she pulls her earbuds out. The tinny music is unfathomably loud before she pulls her phone out of her pockets and pauses the song. She's got a tight grip on her phone.

The girl is panting, keeping her distance. She stares at him like some wild prey animal. 

"Hey," Danny laughs breathlessly, eyebrows lifting. "I'm not gonna, like, hurt you or anything. I'm not a serial killer."

Her brows knit together, turning up at the inner corners. "That's not very reassuring."

He groans but he's amused all the same. He drops his hands against his thighs. "Why does everyone say that?"

She's holding her phone up protectively, like a weapon, and slowly lowers it, pocketing it cautiously. Then she tilts her head curiously, and Danny lets her. It's kind of like watching a cat warm up to you. He doesn't dare move. 

"Hey, you're that ATM guy," she says finally. 

He deflates with relief. "Yeah, I am. I helped you, like twenty minutes ago." She nods, he reaches his hand out. He can see the exact moment when she lets her guard down just enough: her shoulders fall, and she just barely takes a step forward toward him, no longer angling herself so protectively. She takes his outstretched hand, shaking it stiffly. "I'm Danny," he says. 

"Gabriela," she says. Her head dips just a little, like she's always trying to hide her face in the shadows, although the shift just makes the sun—what there is of it—catch on her nose ring. "But my friends call me Gabi—called."

Danny doesn't catch the correction. He pulls his hand back, sliding both into his rear pockets in an effortless attempt to appear, well, effortless and aloof. "Can I call you Gabi?" he asks, the corner of his mouth pulling up.

A sudden pang of fear vibrates through her body and makes the edges of her outline feel fuzzy. No friend has called her 'Gabi' in a few weeks—not that Danny is a friend.

She takes in a self-regulating breath through her nose. "Yeah, sure."

He has an easy-going grin on his face now. "So what brings you to Chorley?" he asks, a playful lilt to his voice like he's used to talking to cute girls. "I can, uh, tell you're a tourist."

Gabi can't quite explain her emotions; that makes the fuzzy fear spike up again. She gulps, a nervous laugh bubbling out of her compulsively. It's either that or cry—and, oh look, tears are welling in her eyes. "Um, everything's fucked. My mom and I fight all the time, none of my friends want to be my friends anymore, and my boyfriend broke up with me." It's just word vomit, involuntary and quick succession. She looks up at him, sniffling and wiping away a tear at her waterline before it can spill. "What about you?"

Danny blinks, eyebrows raised. He stares at her for a moment, mouth just . . . open.

". . . I live here," he says finally.

Another watery laugh, it sounds stunted and forced. "Right, of course you do." She pushes her glasses up with the heel of her palm as she catches another stray tear, tan skin blooming red and splotchy. 

Danny watches her face for a moment, chest panging with sympathy, before letting out a gentle breath. "Do you wanna sit down? Get breakfast or something . . . talk?" he offers.

He's got these big, inky eyes, the kind with a little shine like they've been dipped in glossy dark chocolate. The kind that look at her like he's sorry for her, and like he's hoping on saving her from whatever melancholy she's fallen into. They're pretty eyes, really. Just not for her.

Gabi shakes her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I don't need saving, Danny," she says. The damp dirt digs into the ridges in the soles of her ballet flats as she turns on her heel, starting down the path. 

His eyes widen and he scrambles forward to catch up to her. "I'm not saying you do! I just—you know, you look really cool."

She stops, he skids to keep up. "I look cool?" she asks, eyebrow pulled up by the invisible force of confusion.

He scoffs, a wordless 'are you kidding me?' He gestures at her face loosely. "You've got pink hair and a nose piercing, yes, you look cool."

Gabi goes silent, crossing her arms over her chest as her teeth tug at the meat of her pinkish-brownish bottom lip. She's got this piercing gaze behind the glare of her glasses that's making Danny feel observed—and observed in way he's not used to. More like she's expecting there to be more. Like she knows there's more.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.  "And, ok, I'm saying you need savin' or anythin', but I asked you what you're doing in Chorley and you immediately trauma dumped on me. So, I don't know, maybe you don't need savin', but maybe a therapist?" He sighs heavily, stuffing both hands into his front pockets. "Can we please just have breakfast? That's it; just breakfast. I'd like to get to know you. There's a cafe nearby."

She blinks. Considers. Licks her chapped lips. "All right, sure." Danny deflates with relief momentarily, before she stiffens her back and says, "But you're not getting my Instagram. Or my number or my snap or anything."

His mouth falls open. "What? Why?"

"'Cause I'm only here for a day. I leave tomorrow morning and I just . . ." She takes in a deep breath, daring to meet his eyes. "You only get today." Then she spins back around and starts up toward the cafe.