As if summoned, a memory rushes to the surface. One I haven’t let myself think about in years.

It was March. Snow was finally melting after a pretty massive snow storm that took us out of school for two days. The sun was out for what felt like the first time in months, and Waylon and I had decided to venture away from the park across the school. We had an hour before our rides were due to arrive, so we figured we could explore some of the surrounding woods before anyone noticed we left the park.

“I wish I could live here,” Waylon says, brushing away a couple thorny branches as we climb our way over a fallen tree.

Somewhere nearby, I hear the sound of moving water. A creek.

“I don’t know. It’s kind of dirty,” I say. I make a face and smudge away a drop of blood on my hand where one of the thorns got me good. “And prickly.”

Waylon pauses to look over his shoulder at me. He rolls his eyes. “Pussy.”

I glare at him. “Don’t call me that.”

He winces and looks away. He mumbles a “Sorry” and continues walking.

I look around us as we finally reach a clearing. The trees are still bare from winter, so I can make out the bridge in between the branches.

Waylon jumps onto a large stump and spreads his hands. He grins down at me, two dimples sinking deep into his cheeks. His black hair curls over his ears, long overdue for a trim.

He shouts, “I’M KING OF THE WORLD!” A bird bursts out of one of the trees, and he laughs.

I grin, shaking my head, ignoring the weird tightening in my chest. Sometimes it’s hard to believe this is the same angry, loner kid I first met a couple months ago. The kid I still see once in a while.

I hate those days. The days where he gets all quiet and distant. Like he’s there, but not.

“You need a crown,” I tell him.

He nods. “You’re right.” He starts to look around, a little frown digging in between his brows.

I look around me, nose wrinkling when I spot what looks like feathers and guts. Smells bad too.

There, I think.

I grab what looks like some trampled-on ivy, long and thin enough to hopefully fasten something resembling a crown. Humming to myself, I start tying the ends together to form a circle. It takes a few tries because the ends keep breaking off just when I go to tighten it.

“What are you singing?”

“Huh?” I say distractedly.

Finished with my task, I look up to find Waylon watching me curiously, his arms now at his sides. His blue winter jacket is huge on him, and his baggy jeans are stained with dirt and grass.

“You were humming.”

“Oh.” I lift a shoulder. “Tom Petty.”

“Who?”