Parents carried thermoses.

Teenagers pretended they were only helping younger siblings while carrying enormous pillowcases.

Then I saw Karen.

She stood near the community mailbox speaking into a radio.

A radio.

She wore a purple blazer, an orange scarf, and that whistle.

Behind her stood two men in black jackets.

I walked over.

“Karen.”

“David.”

“Who are they?”

“Safety personnel.”

“Martin said no contract was approved.”

“Martin was informed.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

She looked toward Noah.

“Enjoy your evening within approved hours.”

I stepped closer.

“Don't do anything stupid.”

Her eyes sharpened.

“Threatening a board officer is a violation.”

“I’m advising a neighbor.”

“I am not your neighbor tonight.”

That was probably the truest thing she ever said.

The Whistle

At 6:59, Noah was finally gaining confidence.

He had become brave enough to approach doors without holding my hand.

He had practiced saying trick-or-treat clearly instead of whispering.

His bucket contained gummy worms, lollipops, a tiny bag of pretzels he considered a betrayal, and two full-size candy bars from the Bells.

We were five houses from home when the whistle blew.

Everything changed.

Floodlights came on.

Barricades appeared.

Security guards moved into the street.

Emma started crying.

Children were ordered home.

Candy was collected.

Halloween ended as abruptly as if someone had pulled a plug.

By 7:20, parents stood in tense groups.

Some argued with guards.