I scrape the papery nest from inside the rubber tube. The wasps stab at me, wriggling against my skin, driving their venom deeper. It feels like heat, like life. Like the burn of sand baked in the sun.

I’m careful not to scratch the paint. “Goodyear,” it says in perfect white letters. But it hasn’t been a good year. Not for this swing, and not for this street.

I roll it ahead of me, chasing it as it bounces to the playground. I have to push it through the sand. Even the smallest dune knocks it over.

My hands are swollen with wasp venom and black with hot rubber. They smell like oil and summer.

The tire falls to its side in the trench under the swing set. I wait.

It isn’t until the next afternoon that Andrew comes skipping across the sand, his shoelaces trailing behind him like my fishing line.

“Hey, Hiss,” he says, as he dives stomach-down across a swing. He sees the tire in the sand and stops himself mid-swing. “You got Kyle’s swing!”

“Yeah. This is it.”

“His mom just gave it to you?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“So is she your mom now?”

“Almost. She will be, soon.”

Andrew grins. “Great. That’s good for both of you, then, isn’t it? You get a mom again and she gets a kid.” He reaches and pats himself on the back.

“Yeah, it’s good. It’s almost great. She wants a son, still.”

Andrew nods as though he understands, and resumes his stomach swing, arms outstretched. “Where are you going to put that swing? Shoulda left it on the tree.”

“It was full of wasps.”

“Oh, that’s gross. Can I see?”

“I scraped them out. I think I’ll take it to the pond. Set it up over the water.”

Andrew’s face lights up. “That’s the best idea, Hiss! You can jump off it right into the water.” He leaps backward off the swing and lands on his behind.

“You want a ride on it?”

His face is pained, though not from the fall. “Can’t.”

“It’s my swing, now. You can tell your mom it’s okay.”

“Naw, it’s not that. Can’t swim. I’m not allowed at the pond.”

I reach down and take his hand, pull him up from the ground.

“That’s silly,” I say, “the water’s shallow.”

“My mom says it only takes a few inches, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah. True.” I can almost see her face—just a few inches of water between me and Mother. “But I know what I’m doing. You’ll be with me.”

“I dunno.”

“Kyle’s mom will be there. Look—the paint’s still fresh. It still has all the little rubber hairs on the tread.”