Inside was something I hadn’t seen since the summer of 1970.
A red fishing lure.
The bench was smaller than I remembered, its boards gray and weathered, but four initials were still carved into one end.
« H. T. R. N. »
I ran my thumb over them.
We had carved those initials there the night we graduated high school in 1970.
Tommy, Ray, Nick, and me.
That night, we’d sat beside the lake until nearly midnight, talking about everything we were going to do with our lives.
Tommy’s family was moving to Australia. Ray wanted to see Europe.
Nick swore he’d marry the first beautiful woman who laughed at his terrible jokes.
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