Run with me! I can still see her, nine-years-old, racing down the dark driveway with a lit sparkler in both hands. It was almost midnight and she was still in her swimsuit and a pair of pink denim shorts. I remember that 4th of July. Our parents had spent the afternoon laughing, eating, and drinking around the campfire. By the time the sun went down, they were only giving us kids half a glance worth of attention. Elliot! Come on! Looking back to even my earliest memories, there are always pieces of Stefia that flit across my mind. Her parents and my parents were best friends—our mothers delivered us only two weeks apart—so she and I spent our childhood together. I imagine we started out toddling around in the front yard of one house or the other while our mothers sipped cocktails and complained about the woes of parenthood. Then we grew up and in elementary school attacked the county fair, sped bikes down the alleys in town, waded out way too far in the river, and spent hours slipping down the twisty slide on my tree fort.
