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I found the camera at a church yard sale in Daphne, wedged between a cracked porcelain angel and a stack of Reader’s Digest books that smelled like heat and attic. It was heavy, black metal, with a brass plate on the bottom engraved with one word: HOLD.

Abigail rolled down the window on the passenger side of the SUV. For the past seven months, sweat had pooled in every crevice she could imagine, and she was begging for the crisp mountain air to relieve the heat of the southern sun.

The screech still echoes in the deep reaches of my mind.

Black and darkness are two completely unique experiences. Before, when I would close my eyes, sure, it was the color black, but it didn’t envelop me in its ever-stretching tentacles.

A bead of sweat trickled down James Reynolds’s temple, stinging his eye. He couldn’t tell if it was the sun overhead or the nerves twisting inside him. His hand tightened on the rope tying his boat to the dock. Six months had passed since he’d dared set foot on one, let alone held the rope in his calloused hands, one push away from drifting out.

The sands of time sometimes cause friends to drift apart. Yet in a chapel in Breakwater, Maine, four friends huddled together in a pew while dust floated through beams of light.

The hardest goodbyes are the ones whispered on the fringes of fleeting memories.