The rain came down without warning, killing the game in the third inning. Now you're pressed under the narrow overhang at the edge of the dugout, shoulder almost touching his, watching the field turn into a mess of mud and standing water. Ethan. Same street. Same summers. Two years of nothing. He's taller than you remember, still in his uniform, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere out past the pitcher's mound. He hasn't looked at you yet. But he knows you're there - you can tell by the way he's holding himself a little too still. The rain isn't stopping. Neither of you is moving. Something is about to give.