These memories would only serve to prove that Marley was a complicated person, not a pure, everlasting symbol of our almost-forgotten desert town. As far as Cadence was concerned, those tales died right alongside Marley. Nothing was to get in the way of the girl they’d chosen to represent us—our greatest tragedy and only noteworthy occurrence. We’re a town that cares about things! Look at us! We had a girl die! She was blond and white and pretty! We matter!

But somebody somewhere decided that every five years, tragedies must be made extra important again.

A giant tent in the center of the City Hall courtyard enveloped the view of the barren land in the distance. The memorial committee swapped the usual punch bowl for mixed drinks, made by an attendant forced to stand behind a folding table all night. Store-bought patriotic cookies were exchanged for an entire spread catered by the local bakery. There was even music, complete with a DJ who said things like, “Rest in peace, Marley. You’re our angel now,” as he hit the space bar on his laptop. A second, enormous replica of Marley’s portrait, done in oil by the high school art teacher, was also on display, soon to be hung in the halls of Cadence High School. And the local news crew came to get their rudimentary story. CITY HALL HOLDS FIFTH ANNUAL MEMORIAL FOR LOCAL GIRL KILLED IN ACCIDENTAL SHOOTING.

Yes, five years to the day after a single bullet blew up Marley Bricket’s heart, Cadence held the nighttime spectacle of the summer. It was all designed for everyone to smile bigger. Laugh louder. Love her more.

Our sweet Marley.

I glided into the memorial like my pale pink ballet flats had wheels. “I know, I can’t believe I’m older than Marley now,” I practiced saying, working to strike the precise balance between somber and casual. As if those two should ever be balanced. The delicate daisy fabric of Marley’s old dress landed several inches above my knees and held around my rib cage like a tightened noose. Small breaths for short conversations. Each person I passed looked traced over, penciled-in changes to account for the 364 days between events. And still, like me, they wore old clothes that didn’t fit and old smiles that didn’t light up.

All was as I expected, until I scanned the crowd once more. My heart sprung up to my throat.

A large orb of a light hung above him at the peak of the ridiculous tent we stood under. And though he cowered, hoping body language alone could cloak him, he still carried the mark of a boy you couldn’t help but notice. A boy you discussed as soon as he left the room, if only to say, “Who was that?”