The old stable, no longer in use anymore, except for storage—and a secret space I’d claimed as my own—came into view and I raced toward it. A slight breeze rustled the leaves surrounding the structure, and I pulled the side door open just enough to squeeze through into the dim interior. It smelled like motor oil, dirt, and old wood, and though the mingling scents couldn’t necessarily be described as pleasant, they comforted me in some odd way. They spoke of peace, of found solitude, of safety even. This was my hideaway, a place of secret thoughts and dreams that felt as never-ending as the sky, and as bright and sweet as those oranges dripping like jewels from the trees.

There was something different—though temporary—occupying the space, however, and I thinned my lips as my gaze caught on the shiny convertible decked out in American flags and “Phil Swanson for City Council” campaign signs. The restored 1957 Ford Thunderbird was undeniably cool, the pride and joy of the owner of the orange grove neighboring ours, but I’d be glad when Mr. Swanson had backed it out of here, and this all-but-forgotten space once again belonged to me and me alone. That would be this weekend, right before the annual Labor Day parade, where Mr. Swanson planned to drive the car for his campaign. It was only being stored here because he’d washed and waxed it and didn’t have a space to house it as his own garage was undergoing some sort of expansion.

I looked away from the shiny red interloper and headed for the ladder that took me to the loft area. As my head cleared the high-up floor, my eyes widened, shock halting my movement, one leg raised to step to the next rung.

Emily Swanson.

Kneeling in front of the small, round window, next to my pile of books and among the other things I’d brought here, a hardcover open in her hands as she read.

No. Way.

Of all the people that I never wanted to find this spot or rifle through my things.

The burst of anger fueled my movement and I practically catapulted over the top of the ladder, coming to my feet, my head just grazing the ceiling. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

Emily whirled around, fell to her butt, and dropped the book. “You scared me!”

“I scared you? You’re not supposed to be here. You’re…trespassing!”