My first day came two weeks in. They had already shaken off their summer laze by the time I was being introduced, wearing hand-me-downs from someone else’s long time ago.

When I told her my secret, she promised not to tell anyone, so the surprise was fierce when we were all in the car a few days later and, out of the blue, she announced it.

I took my coffee to the porch overlooking the Strait of Belle Isle in northern Newfoundland. The early morning fog lifted to the sound of gulls, crows, and a fox sparrow.

My right thumb pressed the button again to release more morphine. Covered in tubes and needles, surrounded by sounds generating persistent resonant vibration in the head, I shifted between states of consciousness …

My cure for today's news: I lean over handlebars, legs churn, heart thumps. Breathe in. Breathe out. Wind whispers through helmet holes.

She’d swathed Vaseline on her thighs so she could walk from the lockers to the pool without them rubbing raw. But she’d forgotten to put the jelly around the edge of the bikini panties, the line where it scraped up against her inner thighs.

“Hey, asshole, you fucked up my shot!” “No, brother, I was nowhere near your arm. Look, I’m the drummer; I don’t want any trouble.”

I've had a crush on Crystal forever, and now here I am, in front of everyone, expected to stab a flower into her dress, millimeters from her—you know.