“I save all my money that doesn’t go to bills.”

“But think about all the pictures you’ve been missing out on.” He held up his phone. “I’m holding these hostage.”

I shrugged. “People have forgotten to use their memories. They look at life through the lens of a camera or the screen of a cell phone instead of remembering how it looks, how it smells”—I took a deep breath through my nose—“how it sounds”—my voice echoed over the smaller peaks below—“how it feels.” I reached out to touch his upper arm.

Something familiar sparked in his eyes, and I pulled away, stuffing my hands in the front pouch of my hoodie.

“Those are the kinds of things I want to keep, not a photograph.”

“When we’re their age,” Taylor said, gesturing to the older couple, “you’ll be glad we have the photograph.”

I tried not to smile. He probably didn’t mean it the way it sounded to me.

Taylor kicked at my foot. “It was a good day. Thanks for riding my ass all the way up.”

“I knew you could do it.”

“I’m just glad I did it with you.”

We locked eyes for an indeterminate amount of time. I knew I should look away, that it was awkward and weird that we were just staring at each other, yet I couldn’t seem to find the desire to look at anything else.

He took a step. “Falyn?”

“Yeah?”

“Today wasn’t just good. It might be my best day so far.”

“Like … ever?”

He thought for a moment. “What if I said yes?”

I blinked, gripping the strap of my backpack. “We’d better head down.”

Disappointment came over Taylor’s face. “That’s it? I tell you that you’re my best day, and all you can say to me is, Let’s go?”

I fidgeted. “Well … I didn’t bring a tent. Did you?”

He stared at me in disbelief and then lifted up his hands, exasperated. “Maybe we can hitch a ride from the Summit House employees?”

I shook my head. “No, but we can hitch from there,” I said, pointing toward the highway.

“Hitchhike?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

Taylor chuckled as he followed me out to the road. We walked a good fifty yards with our thumbs out until a red minivan pulled over. The driver appeared, looking just as surprised as I felt.

“Corinne!” I said, recognizing Kirby’s mother. “What are you doing up here?”

“Picking up Kostas,” she said simply.

Kirby’s teenage brother leaned forward, his eyes scanning me and then Taylor. The skin below the American flag bandana covering most of his forehead was smudged with dirt.

“Hi, Kostas,” I said.

“Hey, Falyn.” His eyes returned to the screen of the Nintendo 3DS in his hands, and he leaned back against his reclined seat, his dirty feet on the dash.