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THE SOUND OF thunder woke me up the next morning.

I blinked the blurriness out of my eyes and stifled a yawn, still tangled in Sasha’s arms. It was much too early, but at least it looked like most of the storm had passed.

Between the gray light, and the lessening rain, and the sound of his heartbeat against my ear, I just wanted this moment to last forever. A perfect snapshot.

Then I realized the thunder hadn’t stopped rolling.

I sat up quickly. Not thunder. This wasn’t thunder.

I jumped to my feet and pulled him up with me.

It was loud enough now, the thunder had turned into the striking of hooves on cement, the braying of horses.

A moment later, Gigi came rushing into the foyer, dragging Mitch along with her, and then came my parents and everyone else, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes.

I pulled Sasha—who was confused and weary—outside with me, into the humid and damp early morning.

In all the chaos of the last few days, I’d forgotten.

It was almost like clockwork that on the first hurricane-soaked day of August, wild horses galloped through my hometown.

No one knew when they started their yearly pilgrimage, but it became something of a send-off to each sand-crusted summer in Vienna Shores, North Carolina.

It was a kind of parade that we all prepared for during normal years.

Townsfolk kept a lookout in shifts on the rooftop of the Rev for the first signs of the herd coming into town, and then they’d block all the roads downtown, and close all the ice cream and taffy and beachy knickknack shops that lined the roads, and quietly wait.

During those years, you couldn’t get a good view of them for all the tourists in the way.

But here, now, we stood alone under the marquee of the Revelry, waiting. There was this silent anticipation—metallic excitement on my tongue. Mom swung our hands giddily, bopping up and down on her heels.

The thunder of hooves grew louder. Faster. A cacophony of them.

Then, suddenly, a rush of colors—brown and white and black and spotted, beady eyes bright, sweat glistening on their haunches, manes and tails fluttering behind them.

It lasted less than a minute as the wild horses raced down Main Street, and turned themselves out down on the beach.

I wanted to remember this moment. This snapshot.

I wanted to brand it into my memory—Mom just there, laughing as she kissed Dad’s cheek, Gigi and Mitch making horse sounds, the rain dissipating, the marquee blinking with the name of an Elvis impersonator that never made it across the waterlogged bridge, and Sasha with his hair messy and loose and lovely.

But the moment soon passed, and everyone began to go inside. Sasha stayed where he was, though, his hands in his pockets, looking out at the slightly flooded streets. The hurricane could have done so much worse, and we had been lucky.

“Is something wrong?” I asked Sasha.

“No,” he said, and gently threaded his fingers through mine. “Nothing at all.”

We stood under the marquee of this old and worn concert hall, and if we were quiet enough, I was sure we could hear all of the music that came before us, and would never come again. But there was always new music, and new melodies, and new memories to make.

And I wanted to— here .