The smell of veggies on the BBQ was better than they looked, but nobody was complaining. Some of the moms had taken it upon themselves to keep the neighborhood cookout fed, and as kids darted around, you'd hear a casual, "It’s chicken... or at least tastes like it." Plastic plates littered the grass, carried by the wind off the tables along with a few abandoned cups. One dad even brought his own beer cup, a signature move at these kinds of things.

Just as someone shouted for another round of burgers, a football came flying from the group of kids and landed right on the hot grill. A chorus of dads cursed in unison, rushing toward it in a half-comical, half-serious panic while the kids, including Sarah Miller, just laughed.

It was as chaotic as a party could be and as cozy as any summer evening could feel—perfectly warm, with a breeze carrying the smell of grilling food through the neighborhood. Oldies music hummed in the background, mingling with the sound of kids being kids. And when they all lined up in awe at the sight of rising chicken and vegetables sizzling on the grill, you could almost forget how much trouble they caused.

You tied your apron around your waist, turning to mix up the seasoning for the pork, making sure it was soaked just right before handing it over to Tommy, who’d already started manning the BBQ like it was his life's calling.

That’s when Joel Miller’s truck rolled into the driveway, his hands full of grocery bags—beer, soda cans, and the last-minute snacks. The drinks had disappeared fast, and those kids, hopped up on Cola, were darting around like chihuahuas on a sugar rush. You stepped up beside Joel to help him with the bags, a grin on your face.

"You come to save the day?" you teased, taking a bag from him.

Shifting the weight of the bags in his hands. "More like prevent a riot. I’m guessing the drinks didn’t last long?"

"Not even close. Kids have more energy than sense tonight."

"That’s why we got the beer."