Cal wanted to win the crown at the Candy Skull Parade, and that meant building the brightest sugar-skull costume anyone had ever seen. But Cal had no workbench, only a wobbly crate on the sidewalk. Cal poured warm sugar into a skull mold, waited, and lifted it out. The piece cracked down the middle before it even cooled. Three broken skulls already lay at Cal's feet, white dust clinging to the bones of Cal's fingers. "That's five today," Cal said. The wind kept flicking grit into the sugar. The sun kept melting the edges soft. Every delicate petal and curl snapped the moment Cal tried to shape it. Without a still, clean, indoor space, the costume would never hold together. A voice came from behind. "You're doing it outside. That's why." Munch Munch stepped up, hood pulled low, a jack-o'-lantern bucket swinging from one hand. Cal knew Munch Munch from the old Halloween nights, the quiet kid who always found the places other kids missed. Munch Munch nudged a broken skull with one sneaker. "Heartbreaking. Kind of beautiful, though." "Not helpful," Cal said. "I need walls. A roof. Something." Munch Munch jerked a thumb down the row. "Then come on." They walked until Munch Munch stopped at an old shop built from pale bones. Candy skulls lined its roof, each one studded with bright jeweled candies. The windows hung empty and dark. Nobody had worked inside for years. "Abandoned," Munch Munch said. "No wind. No sun cooking your sugar. All yours." Cal pushed the cracked door open. Dust rose. A long wooden counter ran down the middle, flat and solid. In the corner stood a cat skeleton, posed like a guard, a candy charm glinting at its throat. Cal set a hand on the counter. It did not wobble. "This could work," Cal whispered. Munch Munch found a crate, flipped it over, and sat. "Try one. I'll watch it crack." Cal poured sugar into the mold and waited in the still air. No wind touched it. No sun softened it. Cal lifted the mold slow. A perfect skull slid free, smooth and whole. Cal pressed a thin curl onto its brow. It held. "It held," Cal said, louder. "Munch Munch, it held!" "Told you." Munch Munch almost smiled. "Spooky house makes good candy." Cal set the finished skull on the counter and stepped back to look. Then a cold thought landed. Cal would need hundreds of pieces. The jeweled skulls on the roof, the bright candies in every corner, took color Cal did not have. Plain white sugar would not win any crown. Cal picked up the bare little skull and turned it over in the dim light. The workspace problem was solved. But a costume that dazzled needed color, and Cal owned none of it. "I have a bench now," Cal said. "I still need a way to make these shine."

Cal lined the white skulls along the counter. Each one was smooth, whole, and dead plain. The jeweled skulls on the roof outside glowed with color. Cal's skulls had none. A costume this pale would lose the crown before a judge even looked twice. Cal needed color, and had no idea where to find it. "You've been staring at those for an hour," said Skully Sweetooth. The small skeleton girl sat on the flipped crate, a lollipop in one fist. Cal barely knew her. She just wandered in, sniffing for candy, and stayed. She kept her sock-wrapped hands folded like she was always about to sneak something. "They're boring," she said. "White. Dead white." "I know," Cal said. "I don't have dyes. I don't have anything." Skully pulled the lollipop out with a pop. "My dad works at the candy factory. They dump bad batches. Colored inks that don't pass." She shrugged. "Ask Chuckles. He's always there." Cal didn't want to beg a stranger. But the white skulls sat there, mocking. So Cal went. The candy factory rose from pale bones, its towers crowned with sugar skulls. Inside, a skeleton in a white work shirt was wiping down a steel vat. Bright flowers painted his whole skull, pink and orange and blue. He hummed while he worked. This was Chuckles, Skully's father's coworker. "Help you?" Chuckles asked, not stopping. "I make sugar skulls," Cal said. "For the parade. But they're all white. Skully said you throw out colored ink." Chuckles finally looked up. He studied Cal a long moment. Then he grinned, a wide painted grin. "Kid, we toss gallons of the stuff. Fails the taste test, not the color test." He vanished through a door and came back with a flat case. He set it on the vat and flipped the lid. Inside sat two rows of small bottles. Each one held edible ink, bright as a jewel. Blue, pink, yellow, purple, orange. Then deeper shades below. Cal reached out and touched the cool glass. "These work on sugar?" Cal asked. "Brush them on. They dry hard and shiny." Chuckles snapped the case shut and pushed it across. "Take it. Win that crown, come back and tell me." Cal held the case tight all the way back. Inside the quiet shop, Cal picked up one white skull and a brush. Blue ink, one careful line across the brow. It held. It gleamed. Cal painted a second line, then a third. The skull turned bright, glowing like the ones on the roof. "See," Skully said from the crate. "Not dead white anymore." Cal grinned. The color problem was solved. Then Cal looked at the counter. One skull was painted. Hundreds more waited, bare and white. The parade was close. And Cal was only one person, with one brush, and no time to paint them all alone.

Cal painted all night. By morning, a dozen skulls gleamed on the counter, bright as the jeweled ones on the roof. Word of them spread fast. Kids pressed their faces to the shop window to stare. Cal should have felt proud. Instead, Cal felt watched. The next day, Cal came back with brushes and found the doorway blocked. A tall skeleton sat on the step, boots crossed, chains hanging off his jacket. His mohawk stood stiff and black. He rattled when he shifted, loud as a bag of bones. "Shop's taken," Spike said. He didn't look up. "Go paint somewhere else." Cal knew him by reputation. Spike Boneshire stole candy off other kids and dared them to say something. He'd heard about the bright skulls too. Now he wanted the one still workspace for himself. "I made those skulls in there," Cal said. "That's my work." "Was." Spike cracked his knuckles. "I rattle too loud to work outside. People hear me coming. In here it's quiet." He planted his boots wider. "Mine now." Cal stood frozen. The parade was close. Hundreds of white skulls waited inside, and one angry skeleton sat between Cal and all of them. Then a skateboard screeched to a stop. Chaos Calaverez stepped off it, hair spiked wild, purple eyes glowing. Cal barely knew him, but everyone knew Chaos never sat still. He'd helped fix a scary doorway once so kids would come back. He liked turning problems inside out. "Bright skulls," Chaos said, peering through the window. "Whole town's talking." He grinned at Spike. "You squatting on the artist?" "I need quiet," Spike said flat. "Not a parade crew." Skully Sweetooth slipped up behind them, sock-wrapped hands folded. She'd been the one who sent Cal to the factory for ink. She looked Spike over. "You want quiet," she said. "Cal wants to paint. Those aren't the same room." Chaos snapped his fingers. "There's that old place across town. Hearth, big floor. Nobody's in it." He looked at Spike. "Walls that thick, nobody hears you rattle. You'd have the whole thing." Spike went still. "Alone?" "Dead quiet," Skully said. Spike stood. He looked at the bright skulls one last time, then at the empty street behind him. "Fine," he said. He stepped off the doorway. "Don't follow me." He walked off, chains rattling, and didn't look back. The door was clear. Cal pushed inside and touched the counter. The skulls were safe. Chaos spun his board under one foot. "You got your shop," he said. "But a dozen done, hundreds left. Parade's in days." He looked at Cal straight. "You can't paint that many alone. You know that, right?" Cal looked at the long rows of white sugar. Chaos was right. The workspace was Cal's again. The real problem hadn't moved. Cal needed hands, many hands, and fast.