I expected five decades to have erased a promise four teenagers made beside a lake. Instead, three boxes were waiting on our old bench, each with my name on it, and nothing inside them was what I expected.
I knew something was wrong before I reached our old bench.
I could see it through the trees, exactly where we'd left it 55 years ago.
Nobody was sitting there.
I'd prepared myself for that possibility. Three old friends scattered across three countries had plenty of reasons not to remember a promise we'd made at 17.
What I hadn't prepared for were the three boxes waiting on the bench.
Each one had my name on it.
"HAROLD."
I looked through the first box's clear lid.
Inside was something I hadn't seen since the summer of 1970.
A red fishing lure.
The bench was smaller than I remembered, its boards gray and weathered, but four initials were still carved into one end.
