Wednesday

— Ew. What died?
— Smells like childhood.

— I trust Enid has given you the old Nevermore welcome. She's been smothering me with hospitality.
— I hope to return the favor. In her sleep.

— I read the notes from your school counselor. Mrs. Bronstein.
— She had a nervous breakdown after our last session and had to take a six-month sabbatical.
— How did you feel about that?
— Vindicated. But someone who crochets for a hobby isn't a worthy adversary.

— Why are you dressed like religious fanatics?
— We're pilgrims.
— Potato, po-tah-to.

My grandmother once told me secrets are like zombies... they never truly die.

I know the suspense is killing you.

Enid Sinclair: I'm not going. Not this summer. Not ever. If I'm meant to wolf out, then I'm going to do it on my own timeline and not yours. I hope that one day, you'll finally accept me for who I am.

Enid's father: I'm proud of you, kiddo. You do you.