We didn’t talk about school starting. We didn’t talk about the drive home. We just listened. The click-click of the neighbor’s wind chimes. The distant thrum of a motorboat cutting through the sound. The soft, wet slap of a crab scuttling under the dock.

“Make a wish,” she whispered.

Later, we let the fireflies go. They scattered into the dark, indistinguishable from the stars that were just beginning to pepper the sky.

We all closed our eyes. I wished for the feeling in my chest to last forever—that specific, rare ache of being perfectly content, surrounded by salt air and the people who knew you best.