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“Quinn!” Blair pulls me into a bear hug. “I had no idea you’d be here so early!”

When we pull back from the hug, I take her in: brown hair strewn about like a dandelion puff. Eye bags swollen. Everything red where it should be peach.

Inside the house, shoes gather in clumps around the front door. Half-empty cups leave condensation rings on all the tables. Blankets and pillows lie across the couch in silent battle. A dust bunny in the corner has grown into a rabbit. It smells mostly of mildew, greasy fast-food containers, and a bloated, leaky trash bag.

“Do you want lunch?” Blair leans against the kitchen island. Stacks of unopened mail have made a home that the itinerary must have run away from. No pink, sparkly words wait to be inevitably crossed out come August.

“I can heat up something, or we can go to Hammerhead’s, or I can give you some money for groceries.”

“I’m not hungry, but maybe we can go get ice cream later?” I write up an itinerary with my voice instead. It doesn’t come out pink or sparkly. “Everyone’s coming over later for a bonfire.”

Blair smiles. “Sounds good. I’ll leave you to it.”

I walk down the hallway to my room, leaving Blair to retreat to her burrow in the middle of the blanket and pillow war.

I shove my clothes into my dresser, then crack open the window and throw myself onto my bed. I close my eyes to unwind to the sounds of the world outside the window. Distant seagulls whine, pine trees rustle, katydids click.

The sounds of my favorite season.

The sounds of my favorite place.

I just wish they still had the power to fix me.