August 14, 1974

I wasn’t supposed to go.

At least, that’s what Mom said the first time I asked. Mom’s arms stayed folded, her mouth pinched like she was chewing on all the reasons to say no. The kitchen clock ticked behind her, loud in the silence.

“You don’t know those boys, Noah,” she said finally, her voice clipped. “They go to a different school. And the mountains aren’t a playground. You could get lost, you could get hurt. Bears, snakes, cliffs—you think I don’t read the papers? I will not have you running wild out there.”

I shifted on my feet, already braced for it. She always found danger where nobody else did. “Caleb’s going,” I said quickly, before she could go on. “And his mom’s coming too.”

That made her pause. Just the sound of his name seemed to soften the edge in her eyes, though her mouth stayed tight. “His mother will be there?”

“Yes,” I said, leaning forward a little. “She’s the one driving us. And she knows the trails. She’s been there before.”

Mom’s brows drew together, the kind of look she gave when she was counting up arguments in her head. “Even so… camping isn’t some Sunday picnic. You’re ten, Noah. You’re not old enough to go running around in the woods with a pack of boys I’ve never met.”

I swallowed, trying not to sound desperate. “I won’t be running around. Caleb’s mom will keep us together. Please, Mom. Just this once.”

Her arms stayed crossed, but her shoulders lowered just a little. The fight in her looked like it was slipping, inch by inch.

“If I agree,” she said at last, slow and heavy like she was tasting each word, “you will do exactly as she says. No wandering off, no foolish dares, no staying up half the night telling stories. And you will be back home the morning after. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The grin tugged at my mouth before I could stop it, slipping through no matter how I tried to keep my face straight.

Her sigh was long and reluctant, like she’d just signed away something she’d never meant to. “Fine. But don’t think this means I’m comfortable with it. If it weren’t for Caleb and his mother, my answer would be no.”

“I know,” I said quickly, nodding. My chest felt light already, like I’d been holding my breath all week and finally let it out. I was going.

In the end, she let me go.

Cedar Hill was taller than I thought it would be. The trail wound up the side of the mountain, dirt crunching under our sneakers and cicadas buzzing in the heat of late afternoon. The air smelled like pine and warm earth, and the farther we climbed, the smaller the town looked behind us.

Caleb led the way, his backpack slung low, joking with his friends from Fallview while I trailed close behind. They laughed loudly, their voices bouncing through the trees. I didn’t know most of them. I recognized one or two from the times they’d stopped by Caleb’s house, but still, they were his friends, not mine. A group I wasn’t really part of.

But Caleb kept glancing back at me. Not just once, but again and again, checking if I was still there, if I was keeping up, if I was okay. Every time his eyes caught mine, it felt like an anchor tugging me forward. Like I wasn’t so out of place after all.

And the truth was, I’d never been anywhere like this. My whole life had been school, church, our quiet neighborhood with clipped lawns and curfews before the streetlights came on. The furthest I ever got was Caleb’s backyard. Now I was walking up a mountain. An actual mountain. It felt like something out of a storybook.

By the time we reached the top, my shirt was sticking to my back, but I didn’t care. The sun was already tipping toward the horizon, spilling orange light across the trees like the whole forest was on fire. A clearing opened up near the ridge, wide enough for all of us, and the view stretched so far it made my stomach flip. Hills rolled into more hills, fading purple in the distance.

We set up tents in the clearing while Caleb’s mom called out directions, her voice carrying like a camp counselor’s. She knew what she was doing—where to drive the stakes, how to angle the canvas so it wouldn’t collapse if the wind picked up.

I fumbled with the poles, pretending I knew what I was doing, even though my fingers felt clumsy and wrong. Everyone else moved fast, like they’d done this before. I tugged on a cord too hard, and the whole side of the tent sagged like a broken wing. Heat crawled up my neck.

Then Caleb came over.

“Here,” he said, crouching down beside me. He held the pole steady and slid the last piece into place. His hand brushed mine, just a second, but long enough to jolt through me like static.

“See?” He grinned. “Not so hard.”

Easy for him to say. But when I stepped back and looked at the tent actually standing, actually real, a rush of pride filled my chest. My tent. My first tent. I’d never done anything like it before.

The air smelled sharper at the top of the hill, cool even though the last of the sun still burned orange. I felt lighter somehow, like the rules of home couldn’t reach me up here. Like this was the beginning of something new.

That night, the bonfire snapped and crackled, spitting sparks into the sky. We roasted marshmallows and sang songs I didn’t really know, my voice quiet while everyone else shouted the lyrics. The flames lit everyone’s faces in gold, making them look like moving shadows. Caleb sat a little apart from the group, chin propped on his hand, his eyes unfocused like his mind was somewhere else.

Every now and then, he’d glance toward me, and when our eyes met, it was like the rest of the noise faded for just a second.

After a while, he caught my eye and jerked his head toward the trees. “Come on,” he mouthed.

I didn’t ask questions. I just stood, brushing dirt from my jeans, and followed him into the dark. The laughter and singing dimmed behind us, swallowed by the woods.

The air was cooler under the canopy, filled with the damp, green smell of grass and leaves. Quieter too, like the trees themselves were holding their breath. My sneakers scuffed softly against the dirt path until Caleb stopped, turning toward me with that mischievous spark in his eyes.

“You ever catch fireflies before?”

I shook my head. “We don’t really have them near my house.”

He grinned, crouching low in the grass. “Watch and learn.”

At first, I thought he was teasing, until I saw it—tiny lanterns flickering in the dark. One blinked close, pulsing soft gold, and Caleb reached out with careful hands. His palms closed gently, and when he pulled them back, light glowed through his fingers.

“See?” He held his hands out, letting me peek between them. The firefly shone against his skin like it was caught in a little jar made of light and warmth.

I couldn’t help smiling. “That’s…actually kind of amazing.”

“Your turn,” he said, opening his hands and letting the bug drift up, its light blinking before it disappeared into the dark.

I tried, of course, but my first few attempts were clumsy—I moved too quick, then too slow, the fireflies darting away before I could catch even one. Caleb laughed, not loud, not mean—just soft, easy, like he thought the whole thing was fun no matter how bad I was at it.

“Here,” he said, stepping closer. His hand brushed mine, guiding it through the air. His shoulder pressed lightly against my arm, his breath stirring the hair near my ear. “Like this.”

I followed his lead. Slower this time. Gentler. And when I cupped my hands and peeked inside, the glow was there—warm and alive, caught between my palms.

We both leaned in, watching it together, our faces close enough that I could see the reflection of the light in his eyes. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The night was hushed, except for the steady chorus of crickets and the faint crackle of the fire far behind us.

I looked at the firefly. Then at him.

The glow between us felt like something more than just a bug in my hands. It felt like a secret, a promise, something I didn’t have the words for yet.

Caleb smiled, soft at the edges, and I felt something in my chest tilt toward him so hard it almost hurt.

And for the first time all day, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

We walked back slowly, neither of us in a hurry to return to the noise of the bonfire. The fireflies winked around us like stars shaken loose from the sky, and every few steps Caleb would nudge my shoulder with his, just enough to make me stumble a little. I nudged him back once, which made him laugh under his breath.

When we reached the edge of the clearing, the glow of the fire cast everyone else in flickering orange light. A couple of the older kids were telling scary stories, waving their marshmallow sticks for effect. Caleb and I didn’t join in right away—we lingered at the fringe, just watching.

Eventually, his mom called us to settle down, and the group shuffled into their tents. Caleb and I crawled into the one we’d share, the nylon walls smelling faintly of dust and soap. Our sleeping bags lay side by side, so close I could hear the rustle of his every move.

For a while, we whispered. Stupid things—how many fireflies we’d caught, how bad I was at setting up the tent, how he thought his mom packed too many granola bars. But somewhere in between the jokes, there were longer pauses, silences that felt charged with something I couldn’t name.

“Hey,” Caleb whispered after one of those pauses. “That was pretty great, huh? With the fireflies.”

“Yeah,” I whispered back. My chest felt warm, like I’d swallowed one of those little lights whole.

He shifted in his sleeping bag, turning just enough that I could sense his gaze on me in the dark. “I’m glad you came.”

The words stuck in my head long after his breathing evened out, long after the tent grew still except for the night chorus outside. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over—the brush of his hand guiding mine, the way we’d both watched that tiny glow flicker between our palms.

It was the first time I understood that a single second could stretch wide enough to hold an entire world. And it was the first night I realized I didn’t just like being around Caleb. I needed it.