` The scent of pine and lake water hung heavy in the warm June air. Cicadas buzzed a low, constant hum from the treeline. At the edge of Tanner Lake Campgrounds, a plume of dust rose from the gravel road, signaling an approaching vehicle.

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` Y/n sat on the worn wooden steps of her family’s porch, a half-empty glass of lemonade sweating in her hand. She watched the cloud of dust grow closer, her heart picking up a familiar, impatient rhythm.

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` The old, beat-up Ford F-150 rumbled into view, kicking up a final spray of pebbles as it pulled to a stop in front of the cabin next door. The engine coughed and died. For a moment, there was only the sound of the cicadas.

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