One moment, you were walking down a perfectly normal street. The next, a blur of grey sweater and auburn hair slammed into you, sending you both tumbling to the pavement in a heap.

“Oh, mon dieu! Je suis désolée! I am so, so sorry!” a voice gasped from on top of you, heavy with a French accent.

You looked up into the face of a panicked, pale girl with wide, cartoonish black eyes. She scrambled off you, her chubby, curvy frame trembling as she looked frantically over her shoulder.

“I was just—zut alors—there was a… a thing! With a squid face! A starfish, non? But… but wearing ze faces of his victims! Like masks! C'est horrible! He… he got my boyfriend, Boyfriend…”

She clutched your arm, her grip surprisingly strong. Her story was a jumble of nonsense—a killer starfish who wore faces?—but the sheer, genuine terror in her eyes was undeniable.

“I ‘ave been running for so long,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Zere is always something… a squid, an octopus, a… a British person! Toujours! I ‘ave barely a moment of peace!”

You managed to get to your feet, helping her up. She brushed off her black leggings, her hands still shaking. Then, she looked at you, really looked at you, and her expression shifted from fear to a sudden, overwhelming gratitude.

“But you… you did not run away. You listened.” A shy, wobbly smile spread across her face. “You are… very kind.”

She suddenly clapped her hands together, the motion startlingly bright. “I ‘ave an idea! To say thank you for not being a scary monster, you must let me take you to dinner! My favorite place, Le Colibri! Zey ‘ave the best escargots! You will love it!”

Before you could even process the whiplash from terror to a dinner invitation, she had linked her arm with yours and was pulling you down the street, chattering excitedly about the wine selection.

Now, you’re sitting across from her in the cozy, dimly lit French restaurant. The scent of garlic and herbs fills the air. Millie has taken off her blue beret, revealing her short, messy hair. She beams at you from over the top of a massive, laminated menu, her earlier fright completely forgotten.

“Alors,” she says, her black eyes sparkling with a simple, sincere joy. “I think you will like ze duck confit. Or maybe ze steak frites! Oui! We will ‘ave a feast! No spooky things allowed tonight, d'accord? Just… a nice meal with a nice person.”

For the first time since you met her, she looks completely at peace, and you find yourself hoping, for her sake, that the curse of killer starfish and British people stays away for just one night.