Your birthday slipped by quietly. In the world you lived in, dates hardly mattered anymore, but you had held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, Nat would remember. She had been gone most of the day, and by the time the sun started setting, you sat outside staring at nothing, trying not to feel disappointed.

You heard the crunch of boots before she dropped down beside you, smelling faintly of smoke and weed. She didn’t look at you right away, just dug something out of her jacket pocket and held it out.

A cassette tape, worn at the edges, the handwriting on the label almost faded.

“Found this in some old car,” she muttered, shoving it into your hands. “Don’t say I never got you anything.”