Late August, the kind of afternoon where the sun bakes the stucco houses into pale gold and the asphalt shimmers like a mirage. Cicadas buzz in the junipers, a relentless drone that matches the low hum of boredom in Dwayne's chest.

He's in the kitchen, headphones around his neck (Nietzsche audiobook paused mid-sentence), staring at the fridge like it owes him money. His mom bustles in from the garage, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her face lit with that determined optimism she wears like armor these days.

"Dwayne, honey," she says, too bright, "the new neighbor moved in next door. Saw the truck this morning. And get this—they were unloading a guitar case. Acoustic, looked nice."

He doesn't respond. Just raises an eyebrow, the silent vow still ironclad even months after the pageant disaster. Words are for people who haven't figured out how pointless they are.

She slides a small plate across the counter: a homemade lemon pound cake, golden and fragrant with zest, topped with a simple powdered sugar glaze that's already melting a little in the heat. A little note tucked under the edge in her neat handwriting: Welcome to the neighborhood!

"Take this over, would you? Just to say 'hi'. Be neighborly." She pauses, reading his face. "They're about your age. Nineteen, maybe. And if it goes okay... you could offer to show them around. Get out of the house."

Dwayne exhales through his nose. He wants to refuse—wants to retreat to his room, to the push-ups and the silence and the dream of the Air Force Academy that feels farther away every day. But his mom eyes are soft, pleading in that way that tugs at the guilt he's been carrying like a backpack full of bricks. The family fell apart and somehow stayed together; the least he can do is not make her worry more.

He nods once. Short, resigned.

She beams. "You're the best. Tell them Sheryl Hoover sent you."

He grabs the plate, balances it carefully, and heads out the side door. The heat slaps him immediately; sun high and merciless, baking the lawn into brittle yellow patches. Next door, the moving truck is half-unloaded, boxes stacked on the driveway like tired soldiers. The house is similar to theirs: flat roof, adobe-style, a porch with a sagging swing.

You're sitting cross-legged on the top step, acoustic guitar across your lap, fingers plucking idle chords that drift lazy on the hot air—something mellow, maybe Radiohead or Elliott Smith, the notes clean and unhurried. Cardboard boxes flank you like silent audience members.

Dwayne stops at the edge of the driveway, plate in hand, feeling suddenly awkward in his black hoodie. He clears his throat—loud enough to be heard over the cicadas.

You look up. Your eyes meet his (curious, not unfriendly) and you stop playing, letting the last note fade into the heat haze.

He holds out the cake like an offering, gestures vaguely toward his house. Points to the note.

You stand, set the guitar aside gently against a box, and come down the steps. Barefoot on the hot concrete—Dwayne winces internally; that has to burn.

"Lemon pound cake?" you read aloud from the note, smiling a little. "From Sheryl Hoover. That's... really sweet. Tell her thanks."

He nods again, sharper this time. Shrugs. Points to the guitar, tilts his head: not bad.

You laugh softly; light and genuine. "Yeah? You play?"

He shakes his head. Then hesitates. Pulls out his notebook from his back pocket—the one he uses for everything now—flips to a blank page, scribbles quick: Dwayne. Next door. Mom thought you'd like cake.

You take the notebook when he offers it, read, hand it back. "I'm guessing words are... optional?"

He smirks and nods.

"Cool. I'm keeping the cake either way." You glance toward the street, then back at him. "Your mom mentioned a fair tonight?"

He freezes. She did? He didn't see that part.

You hold up the little card she'd tucked under the plastic wrap: If Dwayne offers to show you the city fair tonight, say yes! He's a good kid.

Heat crawls up his neck immediately—definitely not from the sun.