"H. T. R. N."
I ran my thumb over them.
We had carved those initials there the night we graduated high school in 1970.
Tommy, Ray, Nick, and me.
That night, we'd sat beside the lake until nearly midnight, talking about everything we were going to do with our lives.
Tommy's family was moving to Australia. Ray wanted to see Europe.
Nick swore he'd marry the first beautiful woman who laughed at his terrible jokes.
I wasn't going anywhere. My father owned a hardware store in town and expected me to work beside him.
I'd talked about joining Tommy in Australia someday. My father always changed the subject.
Before we left the lake, Tommy made us promise something.
"Fifty-five years," he said. "Same day. Same bench."
Ray laughed.
"We'll be 72."
"Then bring your walking stick."
We stacked our hands together like excited children.
Fifty-five years later, we'd come back.
At 17, none of us doubted we would.
