If bonfires seem to be a recurring theme in my writing, you’re not wrong. It’s mostly because most of my best memories from a certain point in my life smell like charred wood. We’d spend nights at any time of the year propped up around someone’s beaten up fire pit, watching the embers float off into the air, letting our clothes drink in that deep earthen smoke. When we ran out of wood, we’d steal logs from some unsuspecting neighbor’s surplus. When it rained, we’d prop a canopy over the fire so we wouldn’t have to go inside.