Turbo Pudding

Twelve NeighborsScreenshot Saturday

Six snapshots from Harrow

· The Turbo Pudding team · 3 min read

Friday night football under the stadium lights: Paloma, a girl with a high bun of curls and a yellow pencil stuck through it, in a purple HARROWING hoodie with headphones around her neck, grins and waves one arm high, and beside her stands Mateo, her brother, in a dark red jersey with a big number 12, holding his helmet under his arm, in front of a green field with an owl painted at the 50-yard line, packed stands, a lit press box, a scoreboard showing the guest team Fallow and a HARROW water tower in the night sky

In Twelve Neighbors you are Juror Seven in an arson trial in Harrow, a little county seat in the fall. The trial is serious. The town around it keeps doing what small towns do in October: casseroles, parades, pie opinions and Friday night football. This Saturday, a few snapshots from the first two chapters, both free to play. Mostly the lighter ones.

The picture at the top is from Friday night under the stadium lights. Paloma, who runs a true-crime podcast called Harrowing, is in the stands. Her brother Mateo, number 12, jogs to the sideline, finds her and does a tiny, mortified wave. “Paloma! Put the phone down!” Paloma: “Never! You’re content!”

The long way home

At the end of the first day, there are two ways home from town. County Road 9 takes eleven minutes. The other way takes twenty-six, and Juror Seven takes it: “I like longer.”

The long way goes past Russ’s house. His porch light is on, and there are ten casseroles on his steps, under foil, “like a jury of their own.” Further on, a combine is still working in the Lindauer field with both headlights on. The driver lifts two fingers off the wheel. Out here, that’s a whole conversation. You can wave back, pretend you didn’t see, or honk.

A county road at night seen over the dark red hood of a car, the headlights lighting the asphalt and its yellow center dashes as it runs straight to the horizon through dark fields, a red stop sign with a green Elm St sign on the right, a small house with a lit window and a porch light far off on the left, a combine with two glowing headlights and a lit cab out in the field on the right, and a thin crescent moon in a starry sky
Typed “visual novel long drive home.” Twenty-six minutes, the long way.

Parade rules

Thursday night is the homecoming parade, and Main Street doesn’t care that its own jury is in the crowd. Paloma has rules for the evening: “No trial talk. I’m off the clock. My recorder is in my pocket and it is off.”

Juror Seven: “Your pocket is blinking red.”

Paloma: “...It’s a flashlight.”

Main Street at dusk during the homecoming parade, under a banner reading HOMECOMING – GO OWLS and strings of glowing bulbs, where Paloma, a girl with a high bun of curls and a yellow pencil stuck through it, wearing a purple HARROWING hoodie with a microphone on it and headphones around her neck, rubs the back of her neck with a guilty look, while Juror Seven, with long light brown hair, freckles and a mustard cardigan with a round Juror 7 badge, stands beside her with her arms crossed, in front of a class float with waving kids and a CLASS OF ’27 sign, the Pharmacy, the Bless Your Hair salon, Méndez Hardware and Hoff’s with PIE in the window behind them, and the brass bell of a tuba at the left edge
Search: “podcast host visual novel.” Her pocket is blinking red.

It’s about pie

An afternoon recess in the jury room. Nobody is allowed to talk about the case, so nobody does. Then Travis, Juror Eleven, speaks up: “I’ll say it. Somebody has to say it. That pie was dry.”

Tammy, Juror Nine: “That pie was not dry, Travis. That pie had a hard year.”

You can play along, tell them to stop or keep quiet behind your coffee cup. Either way, Marcus Bell, who runs the pharmacy on Main, puts it on the record: “We’re not discussing the case. We’re discussing pie.” When Ray the bailiff looks in to ask if everything’s all right, the whole table answers at once: “Pie.”

The jury room with a green chalkboard, a wall clock and a door marked JURY ROOM PRIVATE, where Travis, a big bearded man in a red work shirt with a name patch and a Juror 11 badge, frowns and points a finger up, while Tammy, a gray-haired woman in an orange puffer vest over a gray sweater with a Juror 9 badge and a lanyard, frowns back at him with her mouth open, little puffs of steam over both their heads, and a box of donuts and paper cups on the long table behind them
People also ask: is it about the pie? It is absolutely about pie.

Grandma Dot remembers

At the parade, Grandma Dot comes through the crowd, phone held out at arm’s length, “the way she holds everything she doesn’t trust.” She’s texting your mother that she found you.

What she says next depends on how you answered your mom’s text on the first morning. Send a thumbs-up and you get “Your mother says you sent her a thumb. THIS IS GRANDMA DOT.” Type “in court rn” and you get “WHAT IS RN. THIS IS GRANDMA DOT.” Call instead, and she’s pleased: “Who raised you so nice? Me.”

Meanwhile, your little brother Easton marches by under a tuba with a homemade sticker on the bell: JUROR 7½.

A closer view of Main Street during the homecoming parade, where Juror Seven, with long light brown hair, freckles and a mustard cardigan with a Juror 7 badge, smiles on the left, and Grandma Dot, an old woman with short white hair, a blue headband, red glasses pushed up on her head and a dark red sweater with three autumn leaves on it, stands on the right with her hands folded and a dry look, the Bless Your Hair salon, Méndez Hardware, a class float with waving kids and a big owl and a lit HOMECOMING – GO OWLS banner behind them
Searched “choices matter visual novel.” Grandma Dot remembers your texts.

Play the whistle

On Friday, Judge Whitlock calls a recess for the weekend: “I’m told there’s a football game. Go Owls. That is not a ruling.”

That night, the whole town is under the lights, “because where else would it be.” Coach Gentry is Juror Four. In the jury room he spins his whistle. Down here, on the sideline, he just holds it and yells: “Play the whistle, not the crowd!”

Coach Gentry, a man with short light brown hair, in a dark red zip-up sweater with a little yellow owl on the chest and a Juror 4 badge, stands on the sideline glaring with gritted teeth and a puff of steam over his head, in front of a green football field with players lined up at the 40-yard line, packed stands with a lit press box, a scoreboard showing the guest team Fallow, light towers and a HARROW water tower against the night sky
Search history: “football visual novel,” “play the whistle meaning.”

Chapters 1 and 2 are free to play in your browser at twelveneighbors.com. The full game, all seven chapters, is $9.99, paid once. More about the game is on its Twelve Neighbors page.

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