The kid is home from camp. Saturday night, when no one has to sleep, we go to the woods and catch fireflies in our hands, lightly, lightly, don't hurt them. They glow green in your palm. I think they like you.
But a boar is a werepig. They snuffle and grunt and, as the rhyme goes, you hop up in a tree if you meet one. When we hear them she barnacles and cries, but just a little. Then we like the fright of the noises in the dark and we walk home late, just us down the middle of the street.
Sunday night, we go back with mama and three old birdseed buckets made of see-through plastic. We catch fireflies in our buckets and make too much noise to worry about boars. I walk behind and see the woman and the kid by firefly lantern.
When we're home with our catch and too tired to stay awake, we open our buckets and set them out on the window sill. The fireflies are still stretching and flying off one by one as we fall asleep on a summer's night.