Six months ago, when my grandfather died, he left me his trusty shovel, Natasha. He’d claimed to have used it to dig the trenches in World War II, but he was only seventy-three when he died, and the shovel has “1995” engraved on it. Nevertheless, the shovel is something important to me, and when I got it, I swore that one day I would dig a giant hole, somewhere far from the beach where I could go as deep as I want. I’d get all of my friends to come out and help. We’d dig until our souls were satisfied and have a story to tell for the rest of our lives.

Today is the day. At 1PM, my friends and I will meet in the woods behind my house and dig a hole to be spoken of in legend.