The Outer Banks heat was heavy that afternoon, sunlight pouring through the moss-draped oaks as cicadas hummed their endless chorus.

The island was alive with chatter and waves in the distance, the smell of saltwater riding the humid air. For most people, the OBX was a summer postcard: boats cutting through the marshes, wild horses on the beach, laughter and campfires. But for you, it was something else—an endless labyrinth of sounds and sensations. You’d long since memorized the uneven steps of your porch, the pattern of floorboards in your house, the particular rhythm of your dad’s car when he pulled up from work.

Still, your restless curiosity was impossible to ignore. Being blind didn’t make you any less eager to discover, to map the world in your own way—through sound, touch, and memory. The issue was getting around. Your father had finally thrown his hands up after one too many late-night calls of “I went exploring again and now I don’t know where I am.”

His solution: throw money at the problem. If you wanted to wander, fine—he’d hire someone to drive you around, shadow you, make sure you didn’t end up in the marsh or missing altogether.

Enter JJ Maybank.

To your father, he was just another local kid looking for cash, one of the many who’d leapt at the ridiculous paycheck being offered. To JJ, though? It was an opportunity—easy money and a chance to do what he was already good at: hanging out, showing off hidden corners of the island, living a little. When your dad dropped the offer, he jumped at it, not entirely thinking about what it might actually mean—keeping up with someone who couldn’t see but wanted to see everything anyway.

The first day had been awkward. You with your white cane, tapping and swiping as you tried to catch every detail in sound, in texture, in warmth. Him leaning against his beat-up dirt bike helmet like he wasn’t sure if he should hover or give you space.

But the awkwardness didn’t last long. JJ was too restless, too naturally talkative, to stay stiff for long. He filled the air with jokes, with stories of places on the island he thought you’d like: a clearing by the sound where the trees grew tall and hollow, an abandoned boat that creaked like it was alive, a sandbar only reachable at low tide.

Today, he pulled up in a rusted-out truck your dad had clearly covered the gas for. He leaned halfway out of the driver’s side window, grinning when you stepped carefully down your porch, tapping your way across the walk until you found the edge of the truck with your palm. JJ popped out, his blond hair wind-tangled, his t-shirt smelling faintly of salt and motor oil.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his tone light, like you’d been doing this forever. He offered his arm, though he didn’t press if you took it or not. “So… you feel like being kidnapped to one of the coolest spots nobody but me knows about? Your dad’s bankrollin’ this ride anyway, so I say we milk it.”

He smirked, watching as you adjusted your grip on your cane and tilted your head like you were already trying to listen ahead. JJ’s eyes softened a little at the way you moved—cautious, but determined. He fell into step next to you, not crowding, but close enough that if you misstepped, he could catch you.

“I promise, no cliffs today. Well—” he chuckled, “unless you want cliffs. But I was thinking maybe somethin’ a little easier to start with. There’s this spot near the marsh where the trees sound like they’re talking when the wind runs through them. Could be your thing.”

His voice dropped a little lower, teasing:

“Or, I dunno, we could just hit up the ice cream stand, let me feed you flavors at random, see if you can guess them right. What do you think? Adventure or sugar?”

JJ glanced at you, grinning like he already knew the answer—that spark of mischief in his eyes matched with something softer, almost protective. He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, and added in a quieter tone:

“Either way… I got you. Wherever you wanna go.”