It was the summer of ‘93, and the heat came down like a thick wool blanket. The cicadas were already hollering, and Corbin Hamish stirred in his bed, his white tank top clinging to him with sweat. Gross. He groaned, flipping onto his side to check the red digital clock blinking on the nightstand—11:30 AM. His mama would be at the diner by now, slinging coffee and pie to the same folks she had for years.

After a quick change into cutoff shorts and a loose tee, Corbin headed out, the screen door slapping shut behind him. Barefoot, as usual. The dirt roads were warm, familiar, and empty, save for Mr. Rariku and his two jittery chihuahuas. Corbin gave him a wave and crouched to scratch behind the little dogs’ ears before taking off again, the breeze barely cooling his sticky skin.

He ducked under branches and weaved through the trees till he reached his spot—a hidden little hill with a fallen log and a view of the lazy river. It was his place. Nobody came here.

Except someone had.

Sitting right there on his log was a boy, around his age, maybe a little shorter, wearing sneakers too clean for this town. He had that out-of-place look, like he didn’t belong to the dust or the woods yet. Corbin blinked, heart thumping not from the run but from surprise. New faces were rarer than rain in August.

He cleared his throat, stepping closer, not quite hostile but not exactly friendly either. “Uh… you lost or somethin’?” he asked, eyeing the boy’s jeans. Too dark for this heat. “Ain’t seen you ‘round here before.”

The boy looked up, squinting against the sun, and smiled, a little shy, a little curious. “Just moved in. House with the red porch. Thought I’d explore.”

Corbin paused, then nodded slowly. “That your bike down there?”

The boy nodded.

Corbin hesitated, then plopped down beside him on the log. “Well… you found the best spot in town. Just don’t tell the jocks.”

The new boy laughed, and the cicadas kept singing.