And since I’m not driving, I feel like I’ve figured out a workaround with most of my major issues. At restaurants I grab a to-go menu. If I can’t read something, I take a photo with my phone and zoom in, and if I think I might know someone but can’t quite tell, I just wave. People around town probably think quitting the baseball team has seriously upped my personability, because it’s a false alarm 90 percent of the time. Lately, I’m giving out waves like I’m giving out life jackets at the Depot: to everyone.

So sometimes I forget. In the light of the day, when I decided I’d bring Olivia out here, I forgot that my depth perception is crap at night. That’s what happens when you have one eye that’s better than the other, and neither are good. I forgot that I’d be leading her through the woods in the dark, and stumbling as I try to walk at a normal pace without biting it on some gigantic limb hiding at our feet. I forgot that I wouldn’t want to carefully traverse the woods, like I would if I was on my own, because I don’t want to look like a freak with her. I haven’t told Olivia about my eyes for the same reason I haven’t told anyone else: I’m not ready for this to be who I am. I’m not ready for this possibly-temporary problem to define me.

I feel like we’ve been walking through the woods for a short eternity, but at least she’s here. On the Fourth of July, she’s with me. Even though I told her that this would be better than the overrated fireworks display in town, and her face said that she didn’t believe me. I’m not sure if I believe me. Hopefully this nighttime obstacle course isn’t for nothing.

OLIVIA

The woods are dark and Aiden’s holding my hand, but it’s not much help when he’s tripping more than I am. The only thing you can hear, other than twigs snapping and bugs and birds and other creepy nighttime forest sounds, is the constant cadence of shit, shit, shit.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”