They say that when you're unhappy, time slows to a crawl. On the other hand, when you’re happy...well, my summer must have been very happy, then, for it was over in the blink of an eye.

I strode through Hagan’s Books and Music with my best friend, Ben. Late afternoon sunshine trickled in through the glass storefront bringing the natural aromas of the shop to life—the vanilla and almond scent of vintage paperbacks, the chemical and oil scent of vinyl LPs. Niveous, golden dust drifting through lazy afternoon sunbeams giving the shop an ethereal, holy characteristic.

I found myself humming along to the music that played over the speakers as I thumbed absently through the paperbacks in one corner of the store.

“Hell yeah!” my best friend, Ben, suddenly exclaimed a few rows down.

“What did you find?” I called.

“Where are you?”

“Modern classics.”

A moment later, Ben appeared at the end of the row, holding up a Florence and the Machine album and grinning from ear to ear. “They have Dance Fever,” he said. “Now I have them all.”

“At least until they put out a new one,” I goaded.

Ben Hoang and I had known each other since third grade when his family moved into the house next to mine. We’d grown up passing goodies between our bedroom windows which faced each other over a short privacy fence and sharing everything from secrets to ghost stories, heartache, and homework answers. He was the only person outside of my family who knew I was a witch—the only person I trusted with a secret that big.

“You ready to go?” Ben asked as he tucked the album under his arm where at least five other LPs awaited purchase.

“Almost.”

Ben eyed the stack of books in my arm and raised a skeptical brow. “Someone’s allowance is getting a work out,” he snorted. “You sure you don’t need a basket? Or a wheelbarrow?”

“I’ve been saving up since I found out the release date for the next Dresden book,” I replied with mock haughtiness. I passed him an armful of paperback novels, freeing up my hand to continue searching. Hagan’s was a trove of new and used books, music, and local art, and while there were plenty of other shops that could boast the same, nothing beat Hagan’s for location, price, or service. Ben insisted that Hagan’s was the best place to get new vinyl albums (a new hyperfixation of his) because the owner kept the store at a reasonable temperature, and took such care with how he handled the vinyl. Personally, I liked Hagan’s because the owner was a kind man, and because his organizing system when it came to books was flawless. So few people appreciated the subtle differences and overlap between genres the way Mr. Hagan did.

Sometime later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out to see the alarm I’d set earlier buzzing angrily.

“Crap! I’ve got to go,” I gasped. I hurried to the front of the store, Ben on my heels with the books I’d passed him and two more albums in his hands since I last looked up.

“Already? But I was going to see if the old man had any new Nada Surf. I’m still a few albums short of the discography.”

“It’s my turn to cook dinner, and I need to stop by a Plaid before I go home.”

“We could just pick something up on the way back.”

“I don’t think there’s any take-out places that could live up the Hazel Perkins Standard of Health Food,” I snorted.

“Euell Gibbons doesn’t live up to the Hazel Perkins Standard of Health Food…”

“No shit. Why do you think I hide all my junk at your house?”

Laughing, we made for the register.

“Hey, Mister Hagan,” we said conversationally, setting our items on the counter. The shop owner set aside his newspaper and checked the watch on his wrist.

“Two hours. That’s a new record for you kids,” he chuckled, ringing up the albums and books. “Thought you’d be here a lot longer.”

Mr. Hagan picked up one of the slimmer paperbacks I had selected—a copy of Howl by Allen Ginsberg—and examined it skeptically.

“Hm, isn't this a little...much for someone your age?” he asked, eyeing me.

I looked away, chuckling nervously, and fidgeted with a strand of hair. How was I supposed to answer something like that? Thankfully, I didn’t need to. Ben cleared his throat pointedly and Mr. Hagan seemed to remember himself. He continued ringing us up with a little smile.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose kids these days are rather mature.”

I didn’t say anything through the rest of the paying process.

Minutes later, Ben and I stepped out into the afternoon sunshine with the chiming of little bells in our wake.

“Tck! Screw that old man…” Ben grumbled.

“It’s all right,” I said ruefully. “Mister Hagan is just…old fashioned.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “You’re too nice for your own good, Freckles.” He rapped his knuckles on my shoulder. “You gotta learn to stand up for yourself once in a while.”

“I do when it counts!”

“Oh, yeah? Like when?”

“Uh…” I racked my brain for an example, but came up empty. No surprise there. I wasn’t exactly the most assertive person, despite living with and around a number of people who were.

Ben scoffed and shook his head. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Love me unconditionally and buy me lots of coffee,” I offered.

“Yeah, right! You owe me from the last time!”

“Nuh-uh, because—oh! Wait…I do owe you…”

Laughing, Ben sauntered toward his car. I started running calculations in my head about how I was going to pay for our next cup of coffee, but math always had a funny habit of making me dizzy, and I quickly gave up.

We climbed into Sunny, Ben’s banana-yellow ‘98 VW Beetle parked nearby. As acting co-pilot, it was my duty to man the radio. I plugged the AUX chord into my phone and thumbed through my playlists as Ben shifted into gear. I finally settled on one with a lot of Paul Simon in it and hit shuffle.

“Oh, this is a good one!” Ben proclaimed and cranked the stereo.

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It was the kind of summer day that made it seem like there was no tomorrow. All that existed was the here and now—an endless moment of sunlight, inside jokes, music, and convenience store popsicles that stained our lips with the colors of sunset.

Eventually though, as with all good things, it had to come to an end.

We all lived in the Hollybrook district.

It was a picturesque neighborhood tucked away in the suburbs of NE Portland; the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else and people rarely saw fit to lock their doors at night. It was just far enough away from the action of the “Big City” that it could have been a town unto itself, but just close enough to Portland proper to prevent such a thing. The result was that it had none of the big city amenities, or any of the small-town charm.

Still, it was home.

Colorful Foursquare houses with perfect lawns and patios and shrubberies rested in the shade of Pacific yew trees like assorted candies waiting to be plucked from a box of sweets. The houses were packed together, mere feet apart, and separated by little more than a privacy fence. Each house was a different color with complimentary-colored trim, door, and lattice-covered porch. You could definitely see the influence of the HOA here.

My house was no different—a soft blue Foursquare home with virgin white trim dripping with wisteria and ivy. The red-brick chimney towered over the sloping dark grey roofing (which almost never leaked). Planters of roses in every color sat in front of the porch and wound their way up through the white latticework of the porch banister. On the porch sat a worn but comfortable sofa and an iron bistro set.

They had to go on the porch because there was no room for them in the backyard.

The backyard was reserved for herbs, fruit, and vegetables. My grandmother, Hazel, maintained an impressive twelve square-foot garden with just about everything one could think of—parsley, tomatoes, basil, pole beans, peppers, cucumbers, squash, and so forth. Whatever we didn’t eat, Grandma either made into preserves or gifted to the neighbors.

What little space in the backyard wasn’t dedicated to the garden was filled with firewood, which came in handy during the winter when the heat inevitably went out.

It was far from a palace, but it was home—the only one I’d ever known.

Harvard had been a dream of mine since I was little. If I was accepted, it would mean moving to Massachusetts—a new State, a new time zone, a new life—and leaving behind everything that I had ever known.

I’d miss the simple joys of reading a good book under a heavy blanket on the porch sofa on a crisp autumn day or curling up in the bay window of my bedroom with a book and listening to the rain. Harvard may be the dream, but it would be hard to say good-bye to me life with Mom and Grandma and Ben.

Anywhere else wouldn’t be a home-home, filled with memories and the gentle intimacies that came with them. This was home. My home.

Ben pulled the Beetle into the driveway of his house, right next door to mine. He went about gathering his bag of albums and my bag of sweets from the Plaid Pantry to hide with the rest of the cache I stowed in his bedroom.

“Dinner should be in an hour or so if you want to come over,” I offered, gathering up my books.

“Nah, mom’s making larb tonight and I don’t wanna miss that.”

“Ah, no fair. Save me some.”

“She makes it spicy,” he said in a mocking singsong.

“Oh…never mind,” I said, pouting.

Just then, I saw my mom’s car pulling into the driveway next door. Out stepped a women with all of the rebellious beauty of an Alanis Morissette song. Silky, auburn curls bounced on her shoulders as she waved off a cloud of cigarette smoke with her free hand. The other was laden with a bag of cat food.

She wore the same skirt suit that I’d worn the day I interviewed with Silas Hathorne because, in fact, it was hers.

“Hey, Mom,” I called.

She raised a single brow at me and smirked. “Cutting it a little close for dinner, eh, Sweets?”

“Not as close as you’re cutting it with that ­you-know-what. If Grandma sees you—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Mom said, waving off my words as surely as she waved off the smoke from her last cancer stick. “Trust me, if you had the day I did, you’d be smoking, too.”

“Why do you think she has all this?” Ben asked, holding up the plastic bag of candy, cakes, and soda.

“Well, well, looks like the pot is calling the kettle black,” Mom teased.

“Hm? What was that?” I asked, feigning nonchalance as I pretended to be interested with something at the corner of the property.

Mom and Ben shared a laugh at my expense before Mom snuffed out her cigarette and motioned me over. I waved goodbye to Ben and fell in-step beside my mother. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders as we made our way inside. Little bells chimed like fairy sounds as we opened the plum-colored front door.

The moment I crossed the threshold, whatever unnoticed tension I’d built up eased out of my body, and a sense of calm and belonging washed over me. This was the power of our threshold—an invisible and intangible field of energy surrounding our home, keeping out unwanted magical forces, and offering us a layer of protection and comfort. Whenever I crossed it, I knew down to my bones that this was my home, and here I would always be safe and welcome.

“Hello, house,” I sang sweetly—and old habit and joke from childhood.

The threshold of the Perkins home opened up into a mudroom—a kind of secondary entryway to remove and store footwear, outerwear, and wet clothing before entering the main house. Directly opposite the front door was a black-framed mirror with a sconce beneath. A black candle was always kept burning there to ward away negativity and malicious energies.

Mom and I went about removing our shoes so as not to bring outside energies into the home, and set them on the shoe rack under the mirror. Mom set the bag of litter down and started going through envelopes on the mail table, muttering, “Junk, junk, bill…” to herself.

“Anything from Abby Hill?” I asked hopefully.

Mom thumbed through several envelopes, making a thoughtful, “Hmm…” sound.

“Not yet, Sweets,” she said. “But don’t worry. It’s only been a few weeks, I’m sure they’ll get back to us soon.”

I nodded, trying to push thoughts of the school from my mind. I took the time to deposit my new books on my bed before making my way into the kitchen to get started on dinner. Where most families would have pots, pans, or utensils hanging from a rack over their kitchen island, we had drying herbs. Braided strands of garlic and onions hung from hooks to either side of the stove, where a cast iron pan, Dutch oven, and kettle waited patiently.

I took up my apron from the hook by the doorway where it hung beside my mom and grandma’s aprons, and moved to wash my hands at the sink. As I did, the back door opened to admit a woman of about fifty, her long pale red hair tinged with grey and pulled into a loose bun atop her head. She wore and pair of faded dungarees, rolled up to reveal the ankles of her unshaven legs and sloggers, and a sleeveless tie-dye shirt that showed off her muscled biceps and myriad tattoos set into her skin, bronzed from long hours in the sun over the course of a lifetime.

“Hi, Grandma,” I sang as I scrubbed.

“Ah, there’s my little witch,” she sang back. Her smile brought her laugh lines and crows feet to life, as if they only existed because of her joy. She set a basket of lettuce and other veggies on the kitchen island next to a bowl of fruit, and pulled a handkerchief from her back pocket.

“The romaine came in so fast this year,” she said, mopping her brow. “I was worried it would flower before I’d have time to pick it.”

“Sounds like salad for dinner to me.”

“Right you are, sweetheart.”

She kissed my forehead and toed off her sloggers, setting them on the rack next to the back door, and informed me she was going to take a quick shower before dinner. As she left the kitchen, I could hear her and mom talking, their voices fading as they followed one another up the stairs.

Alone for the first time that day, I took a moment to relish in the quiet. I loved Ben, and my mom and grandma, but it was times like this, when I could be alone with my own thoughts and energies, that I felt most at peace. After drying my hands, I synced my phone to the Bluetooth speaker on the island and put on my “cooking playlist.” Music filled the kitchen, and I bopped along to it as I washed the romaine, peppers, and tomatoes grandma had brought in from the garden. Whatever vegetables I didn’t use went into the fridge or fruit bowl, depending. I seasoned three chicken thighs from the freezer and put them in the air fryer, chopped lettuce and vegetables as I sang, and mixed up a quick and easy salad dressing.

I was by no means a great cook. My skill set was confined to simple salads and pastas, but I enjoyed the ritual of it. I was a kind of active meditation for me, where I could lose myself in the routine of it, give my mind and emotions a break, and just zone out for a bit. The music helped, too.

I was chopping the cooked chicken when a sudden weight settled on my shoulders, along with the gentle scratch of claws and tickle of black fur.

“Hello, Bast.”

The cat curled closer around the back of my neck, purring gently. I picked up a sliver of chicken, determined it had cooled enough to be safe for her cat’s tongue, and offered it to her. The cat ate greedily on my shoulder as I returned to the task of finishing up the meal, adding pepper, parmesan cheese, and olives to the mix.

By the time Grandma was done with her shower and Mom had taken off her makeup and changed into her house clothes, dinner was done and plated.

That evening seemed like all the nights before and all the anticipated nights to come—filled with a quiet joy as we gathered around the table, talked about our day and ate, made jokes, laughed together.

After the meal, it was Mom’s turn to do dishes, so she took our plates to the kitchen while Grandma went to the living room to continue her latest crochet project, and I padded upstairs to grab one of my new books.

Everything seemed as if we’d be settling in for another idyllic evening, when there came a knock at the door.