Satan’s Affair is one of my favorite places in the world. At night, the fair comes alive with laughter, peals of screams from terror and excitement, and moans of joy from the fried food. Walking into the field full of haunted houses, carnival rides, and food trucks is like walking into pure static energy. Daya and I immediately get sucked into the crowd. It’s five o’clock, pitch black already, and some of the monsters are already starting to trickle into the crowd. My eye snags on a girl dressed up as a broken doll, sitting on the bench and happily eating a philly cheesesteak sandwich. I nearly groan, the scent of grilled meat making my mouth water. I nudge Daya and point her out. “She’s dressed as a doll.” Daya hums, and both of our eyes track over the houses. They’re not lit up yet, but some of them make it obvious what the theme is. “Our childhood,” I murmur, noting the dollhouse dubbed Annies Playhouse alongside a house called the Zea Massacre. The entrance is a massive teddy bear with a missing eye, a torn ear, and blood splattered across its fur while a bloody knife is gripped in its hand. It gives life to a memory from my own childhood, alongside millions of other little girls, sitting at a table full of stuffed animals and empty teacups. That house won’t be a pleasant tea party, but one full of killer stuffed animals and creepy monsters. “This is going to taint every single one of our childhood memories, isn’t it?” I conclude. “Oh yeah,” Daya says, her lips twisted with both excitement and dread. I grab Daya’s hand and lead her towards the food trucks. We like to eat first before we get harassed by monsters. It makes it awkward when a corndog is shoved halfway down my throat while a creepy monster is standing over me and breathing down my neck. “What sounds good?” I ask, my eyes roving hungrily over the endless options. “How can you even choose?” Daya whines, sharing my dilemma. “We have to at least get a mean hot dog and the truffle fries. Oh! And the fried veggies. Oh, and maybe—” “You’re not narrowing it down like you think you are,” Daya interrupts, her tone dry. “Okay, fine. That broken doll over there is eating a philly steak. What about that and some fries for now?” I ask. “Lead the way,” she says, throwing her hand out in an impatient gesture. I don’t even laugh—I take food just as seriously when I’m hungry.