They always talk about some mythical “before” time, when seasons were drier and milder, when white-tailed deer were abundant, when the trees were filled with birdsong. It bothers me to hear them talk about it, not because I’m envious, but because this is the only world I’ve ever known. They treat it like the dismal end of some story, but for me, it’s the beginning, whether I like it or not. I’m seventeen, and I’ll never see a dull sunrise.
