Page 13 of To Catch a Firefly

I nod, eyes dropping to his lips again. They’re bowed on top and the bottom is fuller. I never quite noticed before.

When my gaze rises back to his eyes, Lucky looks serious. We’re still near the falls, the sound of the water a constant drum, but I can hear him just fine when he says, “Come with me.”

He’s said it before, but I’ve never seriously considered leaving Nebraska. I’m not like Lucky; an adventurer at heart. A wild thing. I like my home and the comfort of this land. I like the ever-present earthy smell of the corn and how I know when I enter town, Maisy’s Diner will be there waiting.

I like my life here, but for the first time, I consider Lucky’s words.

He can tell. His eyes light immediately. “We’re applying to colleges this year,” he says, fingers running from my shoulder to my hand underneath the water. He grabs on tight, nails digging in. “Let’s send applications to the same places at the very least, okay? There’s still plenty of time to decide.”

I nod—because what’s the harm?—and Lucky grins so wide my breath catches.

“It’ll be great, El. You’ll see.”

And I don’t know what to say, so I hold on to Lucky’s hand and hope he’s right.

Chapter 5

Ellis

I was eighteen when my mom got her diagnosis.

“Ellis, baby, would you sit down? You’re making me dizzy.”

I huff. How am I supposed to sit right now?

“Honey,” my mom persists.

I go to her, slumping down on the couch. She immediately reaches for me, squeezing my arm. I notice the tremor in her hand, and my anger drains instantly.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says.

How? It’s not okay.

“It’s not so bad yet,” she goes on, soothing me. “And the doctor says I’ll have years before the symptoms worsen enough that I’ll need to make adjustments.”

But she’s already had symptoms for years. She just didn’t know the tingling in her hands or pins and needles in her feet were the beginning stages of multiple sclerosis. Shouldn’t the doctors have caught it before now? Couldn’t they have done something?

“Ellis, look at me.”

I do. My mom’s steely hazel eyes catch my own.

“I refuse to let this stop me,” she says. “It’s a bump in the road, nothing more. You hear?”

I nod, and she squeezes my arm again.

“Okay. Now I need to make some phone calls, so I want you to go out and scream a little or do whatever you need to do. And then, when you come back, we’ll talk about next steps.”

Without a word, I wrap my arms around my mom, and she exhales heavily.

“Oh, honey. We’ll be all right.”

Her hand rubs circles over my shoulder blades as I will my eyes to stay dry. When I pull back, she pats my cheek.

“Love you,” I say.

Her chin wobbles. “Love you more.”

When I get outside, my feet carry me toward the silo. It’s sat unused on our property for as long as I can remember. My dad told me his grandfather stored corn in it a few generations back, but when bigger companies bought most of the land in town, small farms gave way to mass production. The silo has been empty since, and the land that once belonged to our family—the cornfields behind our house and Lucky’s—was sold decades ago.

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