TO BE HONEST, I'm not sure I expected anyone to show up, but when I come to the end of the overgrown path, pushing through a tangle of bayberry and wild roses into the clearing, Ben is already there.

He's still dressed in his graduation clothes, khakis and a button-up, his tie undone so that it hangs limp around his neck like a rope. His bike has been tossed off to the side, and he's hoisted himself up onto one of the granite ledges that shelter the space, his feet dangling. He raises a hand as I approach.

"Hey."

"Hey." I smile, trying to act normal, as if we still hang out here every day. As if we hang out at all, anymore.

"You managed to get away," he observes.

"Finally," I say. "My parents dragged me out to dinner with my grandparents. I thought it would never end."

He lets out a half laugh, one dead syllable that drops straight to the ground.

"My parents can't even be in the same room together," Ben says. "They started arguing in the school parking lot over who would get to take me out to eat, so I slipped away and came here instead."

"You've been here that long?" I ask, surprised. It's been over two hours since our graduation ceremony ended.

He shrugs. "I like it here. It's nice."

I scramble awkwardly up onto the ledge to sit next to him, and we stare out at the water. He's right, it is nice. It's a beautiful June evening, still bright, although the sun is starting to drop towards a bank of thick clouds painted on the horizon.

From up here on the bluff we have a perfect bird's eye view of Camera Cove: rows of brightly painted wooden houses; the commercial district, with its quaint shops and restaurants; town hall's elegant brick clock tower; the boardwalk twisting along the stretch of sandy beach to the jagged, cave-riddled cliffs at its far end.

From a distance, you would never think that there was anything more to the town than the postcard prettiness that's always been its claim to fame; was its only claim to fame, before last summer.

"Hello boys."

We both turn at the sound of the voice. Doris has materialized at the base of the path, as if from thin air. She's the kind of person who looks exactly the same now as she did when she was a little kid, and probably still will when she's eighty. Pin straight, shoulder length black hair, bangs sharp enough to slice your finger, tortoise framed glasses, wide strapped canvas shoulder bag. Every piece of clothing is perfectly clean and neat and pressed, every hair in place.

"Congratulations. Or should I say, 'congraduations?'" she says, in a pretty accurate impression of Anna Silver's perky valedictory speech. "Jesus that was tough to get through. I was dying for a Xanax."

Something else that will never change about Doris: her sarcasm. She might be neat and tidy on the outside, but inside she's all barbs and sharp edges. I've known her since we were kids, but she's a tough nut to crack.

"It wasn't that bad," says Ben. "I thought she did an okay job."

"Are you kidding me? She actually used the term 'now it's time to spread our wings.' I thought she was going to break into song."

I don't say anything. Anna's speech might have been a bit chipper, but it would have been a hard job for anyone this year, under the circumstances.

"No family party for you?" I ask instead.

Doris rolls her eyes. "Fat chance of that. I'm surprised my parents even showed up at the ceremony." She points at the sun as it begins to dip behind the clouds. "Looks like I'm just in time. Let's get this show on the road."

We all turn to look at the ancient, gnarled oak, the only tree on this windswept bluff.

"Do you think we should wait for Carrie?" asks Ben.

"I was sure she'd be here," I say, which isn't really true. I wanted her to be here. The Carrie I grew up with wouldn't have missed it, but I've barely spoken to her since last summer.

He shrugs. "Maybe she'll still show. It's kind of important."

"Important," scoffs Doris. "Give me a break. Carrie's not coming, guys. She's done a better job of forgetting things than the rest of us."

"If it isn't important, why are you here?" Ben asks her, with an uncharacteristic flash of irritation.

I look back and forth between them as they bicker, vaguely aware that the sun has disappeared behind the clouds and the light has shifted. They look distant to me, as if I'm watching characters in a movie, rather than people who used to be my best friends.

"It seemed like a good way to wrap things up," says Doris. "I'm ready for this year to be over. I'm sick of thinking about it. I'm sick of knowing that everyone else is thinking about it. I'm ready to start thinking about something else."

"You make it sound easy," he says.

"No it's not easy, Ben," and now Doris is the one who sounds irritated, "but it's necessary, so let's have our little ceremony or whatever and start getting the hell over it."

She walks over to the oak tree and crouches at the base, and Ben and I follow her.

"Why did you come, Mac?" Ben asks me as we kneel down beside her.

"Because we made a promise," I say.

They glance at each other. It's a quick, instinctive thing, almost imperceptible, but I notice it. It occurs to me for the first time that they might only be here for my benefit. Because they feel sorry for me, their weird friend.

Even though we're not friends. Not really. Not after last summer.

The three of us stare into the thick claw of roots at the base of the tree, muscular and knotted. It's easy to imagine them continuing down in a death grip beneath the surface. In front of us is a hollow, packed tight with rich, dark earth.

"How are we going to do this?" I ask. "I wasn't really thinking. I could run home and get a shovel or something."

But Doris has already unslung her bag and opened it in front of us. She pulls out a large Ziploc. Inside, cocooned like police evidence, is a gardener's trowel, caked with dirt.

"It's my mother's," she explains. She opens the bag and pulls out the trowel, then twists forward into the hollow and starts to dig awkwardly.

"Let me do it," says Ben. "My arms are longer than yours."

Doris pulls back without protest and hands him the trowel. It's only a few seconds before Ben hits something, and after he clears away a bit more dirt, he reaches in and pulls out a metal tube.

"That was easier than I thought," I say.

"We didn't really bury it all that deep," says Doris. "It's not like anyone was going to think to look for it."

Ben carries the object out from the tree and puts it on the ground in the middle of the ledge. We sit in a circle, staring at it; an old stainless steel Thermos.

"This was always your idea, Mac," says Doris. "You do the honors."

I reach over and grab the Thermos. It's lighter than it looks. I hesitate, just for a moment, then I use the sleeve of my hoodie to brush away some of the grime that covers it like a skin. The revealed metal dully reflects the sunset back at me. I glance up at Doris, to my left, and Ben, to my right. They're watching me, waiting, and in the weird vivid light they look almost unreal — familiar faces seen through a blur of stained glass.

I twist the top of the Thermos, and with a scrape of grit it opens.

There's a piece of paper folded up inside, on top of everything else. I pull it out and open it, read aloud my pompous junior high handwriting.

"On this, our last day of...