“It should always be like this,” Carmilla said, her voice a little hoarse from cigarettes and sleeplessness. “Like what?” I asked. Our shoulders and knees were touching as we sat cross-legged side by side. “It should always be senior year,” she said with a conviction that surprised me. “I should always be twenty-one, with nothing but life ahead of me. It should always be sunrise, at the start of a new day.”
