Around nine o’clock, the air grew heavy. The crickets stopped chirping. A hush fell over the neighborhood. Then, a flicker of light behind the hills, too brief to be lightning, more like a camera flash from God. Sam would look at me, eyes wide. We’d grab our skateboards and race to the highest point of the street—the old fire road.
And then, the fireflies.
Late afternoon was for the hammock. The world slowed down. The sun stopped being a tyrant and became a benevolent king, painting everything gold. I’d lie in the swaying shade, a book resting on my chest, the words sometimes blurring as my eyelids drooped. The only sounds were the lazy thwap of a fly against the screen door and my mom humming along to an oldies station from the kitchen.