Scout Finch had a sacred tradition on October 31st. Every year, she would turn down all invitations to costume parties and evenings of revelry, buy a bottle of whiskey and a large carton of cigarettes, and attempt to finish them both in one night while ignoring the ringing of her phone.

By then, she had spent a decade shutting herself off from any human contact for one night every year, and so why her family and friends still went to the trouble of calling long-distance remained an enigma. She knew that they wanted to make sure she was alright, at least in theory, but she would have thought in the 16 years since they'd have learned it wasn't something she wanted to talk about. Still, in an effort to show that she was at least still alive, sometime around the end of the evening, when she could scarcely stand and was about to go to bed before she collapsed, she'd always pick up one call, immediately asking "Who is it?" In previous years, she had gotten hold of Atticus, Alexandra, Henry and of course Jack, and every year, her response was the same. "Fuck off." Scout was convinced one year she had heard her aunt faint before she slammed down the phone.

That year, though, her phone rang continuously. Even though the band of worriers in Maycomb was persistent, they usually gave her a few moments to breathe before trying again. Whoever was phoning her now was persistent, and it was enough to make believe something even worse had happened on October 31st. In that moment, it was a delightful thought. She would no longer hold a monopoly on Maycomb's pity during the month surrounding it. Whoever had went and died, and for it to be worse than what she'd gone through they had to have died, would have died anyway, so thank heaven above, they'd picked the best possible date.

She thought it best to figure out who it was, if only to gauge how much attention it would draw away from her, so she picked up her phone and promptly asked, "Who's dead?"

A male voice from the other end responded, "What?"

"Did somebody die?" She could hear her words slurring together, but couldn't make herself care.

"No."

"Did someone get hurt?" It had to be something. Why else would whoever it was be calling so damn often?

"No."

She sighed loudly, contemplated smashing the phone then and there, and instead shouted, "Then why the hell do you keep calling me?"

"You really do get wasted," he said dryly, but he still sounded concerned somewhere under it all. The concern was familiar, somehow, and so was the timbre. She spent a moment pushing through the whiskey clouds in her mind to find who the voice belonged to.

"Goddamn it, Jem, you know better than to call." It came out even louder than she had intended, somehow.

She and her brother had their own ritual every November first, only broken while he was in Europe for the war. She stayed home all day, first from school, then in later years from work, and he instructed her by phone on how to nurse her hangover. His call was the first she would pick up after that evening, and in exchange, he had always left her alone the night before. Instead of acknowledging his break in tradition, however, Jem asked, "How much have you drank?"

"About half a bottle of whiskey."

"Jesus Christ. And that's why I'm calling." Jem sounded far too weighed down for Scout's taste. The very sound of his voice made her see spots. Jesus, would she need even more whiskey to be able to tolerate this conversation? For the moment, though, she left the whiskey on her counter and lit up another cigarette instead.

"What? I only get this drunk once a year. It's not going to kill me."

He sighed. "Are you going to remember any of this tomorrow?"

"Somehow I always do." It amazed her that she wasn't even lying. Somehow, the yearly flood of whiskey did nothing to destroy her memory. Unfortunately.

"Well, then, this is why I'm calling. Because I worry about you and how you're coping." He was so serious, so practical it made her laugh out loud.

"You sound like Alexandra. Did she put you up to this?"

"Jesus Christ, no, Scout. She doesn't understand this, because of the things she doesn't know. But I know them and that's what scares me. It's been a decade and you're still struggling." His words were a heavy blanket. She knew she was too intoxicated to easily understand his level of conversation, but she didn't care. She'd decipher what he was saying one way or another, regardless of how much she'd drank.

"Easy for you to say. You got off with only a broken arm, and grew up to become Maycomb's sweetheart."

"But it's the truth. I only ever I see you bitter and unhappy."

She sighed, and once again considered smashing the phone. Wasn't it obvious? "That's because you only ever see me in Maycomb. I try to avoid that shithole as much as I can."

"It's not like it's only in public, though. Even when we're alone in the house, you're miserable and on edge."

Those stupid spots, threatening to swallow up everything until she couldn't see anymore. She thought by now she could handle a little more whiskey. And Jem was only adding to it by refusing to see the obvious. "That's because it's fucking Maycomb."

"I don't understand what you're trying to say."

"Gee, I don't know." Her words were coming out loud again, but she didn't care. "Maybe I can't stand being in a town where all anyone thinks when they look at me is that I got fucked as an eight-year-old. Maybe I get tired of a town where it feels like everything is trying to remind me, and I have enough trouble with memories as it is."

"Do you really think that?" He sounded… shocked. Like he was the one who had drank until he was dumb and not her. She knew she didn't talk to him as much as she should, but had he really never noticed how Maycomb's perception of her was stuck in the past?

"You know I'm right, Jem. I'd tell you just the same thing when I was sober."

"I suppose you are." He sounded tired now. "Maycomb isn't very understanding of complicated situations. And you're complicated."

She couldn't help but sigh at that. "I know."

Jem stayed silent for a moment before responding. "You know I can't get away from Maycomb."

"You could at least try. Meet me when I'm in Nashville, at least."

"It's not like you won't be coming home, anyway. Can't you try to enjoy Maycomb? Show them you're not the sad nine-year-old you were once?" He was almost pleading. It was sending her head reeling again.

"I can't. Not there." She thought a moment, then slammed down the phone. She knew she shouldn't hang up on Jem like that, but he was the one who had called her on October 31. He was lucky she'd listened to him at all, even as he defended Maycomb. She'd tried to be happy there, she really had. But too many places there brought up memories, and even if she avoided them, the people around her were triggers, too.

Her head spun once again, and then she was hit with a wave of nausea. Did she have to call it a night already? She hadn't even gotten through all her cigarettes yet. But there were the spots, encroaching further on her vision, and the wobbling of the ground below her feet and she knew that she had gotten to her limit.

The phone rang again, splitting her head wide open and nearly knocking her to the ground. But she thought she should keep with tradition, if she was about to head to bed, and so she picked it up anyway. "Who is it?"

"Jack Finch." And damn it, it was. Her uncle's voice never failed to feel like home, no matter how drunk and resentful she'd gotten.

"Do me a favor, will you? Get Jem to visit you up in Nashville. I don't want to go to Maycomb again."

"I'll try. Now, let me guess: fuck off?" They both started laughing, and the world started spinning again along with it.

"Yes," she agreed, then hung up the phone and made her way into her bed, falling asleep without even bothering to get under the covers.

The next morning, as always, Jem reminded her to drink enough water, get more sleep, and if she was really feeling it, to take another swig or two of whiskey to dull the pounding of her head. And then, she asked again, "Can we visit in Nashville instead of Maycomb?"

"Only if you'll give Maycomb another chance first. Try to be who you are in New York there, just once."

She didn't want to—she knew it would only end in memories, misery and failure—but for Jem... "Ok. I'll try."

And sure enough, she did hold up her end of the deal on her next trip into Maycomb, even though by then she was already swallowed alive in both memories and misery. That had been her last phone call with Jem, and she was down just two weeks later for his funeral, still struggling to believe she'd never see him again.