Late into the night at Smith’s party, you were drinking something neon green, made with tequila, that wasn’t a margarita. We talked about how you wished you had one of those little umbrellas. It was you, me, Smith, and four others and none of us knew the others because we were still wearing our masquerade costumes. I remember the way we bonded under the intense fear and atmosphere of general distrust of one another as we, one-by-one, met grisly ends in the deadly game of cat and mouse that ensued. If you remember me I’d love to see you again. I was the one with kind of blonde-ish hair that wasn’t murdered by the end of the night.