I hook my fingers around the edge of a metal folding table and lift it, testing my shoulders before committing. Recognizing how she cares about me.
“I’m good,” I reply. “Promise.”
She squints at me, the way she does when she’s deciding whether or not to believe something. “You say that, but—”
“I know,” I cut her off gently. “No heroics.”
She hesitates, then nods. “You know what I’m thinking now, huh?” she teases.
This is one of my favorite parts of her. The one where she gives me shit. She carefully makes fun of me.
Truth is, if there’s a scenario where I stupidly push the shoulder too far, it’d probably be from keeping up with Sadie.
We work side by side as the sun dips lower, the sky bleeding into that soft late-summer palette—orange melting into pink, pink fading into blue. The air cools enough to raise goosebumps on my arms. Somewhere in the trees, crickets start up, slow and uneven, like they’re warming into it.
It’s hard not to notice how pretty it is here. It seems like every night, the lake dares the sky to do better than the night before.
Sadie hums under her breath while she gathers trash bags, her movements efficient, familiar. Like she knows this place the way I know the lines on a court.
Watching her makes me want to keep going, even when my arms start to burn. Not because she’s watching—but because she isn’t. Because she assumes I’ll be there, doing the work with her.
That kind of faith sneaks up on you.
We work in quiet silence, doing our best to get as much done as possible. My muscles are tired and my feet are sore, but Sadie shows no sign of stopping and I follow her lead.
It’s when I’m carrying a stack of flattened boxes toward the dumpster that I notice it—the first tiny spark of light drifting up from the grass near the fence.
Then another. Then three more. I stop short.
Fireflies.
They blink on and off like they’re breathing, rising slowly into the dusk. Little floating embers. It’s the sort of thing you forget exists until it’s right in front of you.
Sadie follows my gaze. “Oh,” she breathes. “They’re always out over this way.” She gestures to the line of houses and the rec center.
“I haven’t seen them like this in forever,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
She smiles, a little surprised. “Really?”
“Yeah. Chicago may get a few but not everywhere.” I set the boxes down, suddenly careful, like I might scare the moment away. “Or maybe I’m not paying attention.”
More fireflies drift up from the edges of the tall grass, pulsing gold and green against the deepening sky. The sound of the crickets becomes the soundtrack for the glowing.
For a second, I’m eight years old again, barefoot in the park with my mom, chasing lights with a mason jar while she sits on the edge of the slide. I remember how she told me not to catch them for too long—that some things are better when you let them be.
Sadie breaks the silence gently. “What’re you thinking about?”
“My mom,” I admit. “She used to make a big deal out of fireflies. She’d take me to the park where they were always bright. I’d be in my pajamas and we’d go in our flipflops.”
Her head tilts. “I love that.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then carefully asks, “What about your dad?”
The word lands flat.
I shrug, easy. Practiced. “Non-factor. Left when I was five. Never came back.”
