The Ridge. Named after the road it’s on, the Ridge is the top of the escarpment and offers views of the town that stretch all the way across to the lake and beyond. There are lookout points and tiny gravel parking spots with unreliable railings. The Bruce Trail cuts through here, and there are always people hiking and walking their dogs, clamoring over the rocks and roots, breathing hard with the healthy work of it, their cheeks rosy. It’s also the site of many a teenage campfire, littered with a rotation of bottles and trash and the occasional used condom. The environmental Good Samaritans of the town clean it all up, and the cycle starts again the following weekend. I had a friend when I was little who lived up on the Ridge, and I remember running around her huge backyard that stretched into the protected land of the escarpment, pretending we were in the grounds of a medieval castle overlooking the village.

Antar deftly rounds the curves leading us up higher, and my stomach gives a lurch as we gain precarious altitude above the town. Dee lets out a whoop as her hair flies all over the car, expands and fills the space like her own airbag. I know in that happy moment, seeing our life from above in miniature, how delicate everything is. How fragile and risky and in danger we are of tipping over the edge. I feel so good right now, I know I do. But there is a fuzz, a dark-gray edge to the picture, bleeding into the joy. I shake my head, shake it off, grinning, then laughing at Dee. If nothing else, if no one else, I have this, right now.

“Hold tight!” Antar yells over the music as he takes a corner at top speed, and then we are careening along the top of the Ridge, Dee’s hand out the window, riding the warm wind. The sun is straight ahead of us, painfully bright and inviting, daring us to fly right into the fireball. Close your eyes against the heat of it, Stevie, against the blinding light.

When we get to the spot we all agreed on, sent through map pins and texts, pinpointing the scraggy dirt clearing where we’ll spend the evening, there are already a few people there. Ava is a master when it comes to making fires, I guess, because she is directing the project with serious expertise.

“You have to put the logs up like this,” she says, exasperated, to Marta, who laid them flat. Marta sits on a log sulkily and waves at us.

“Okay, Ava, who died and made you queen of fires?” jokes Dee, tossing a backpack on the ground and joining Marta. I sit down beside her.