His profile stood out against a sky of granite, a grey dawn, a promise of clouds with the dying of another night in the swell of morning on this Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day, a relic of ancient ceremonies paying tribute to light at its fullest, the fecundity of summer and its warmth. An outdoor show, an abundance of free beer, a friend of legal drinking age picking up the drinks for him at the service counter since volunteers stood by to check young drinkers’ ID.

The site was empty, the last partiers having disappeared into the cool air of night’s end.

He nodded off, leaning against a log that had been spared the huge bonfire built several metres high by the villagers, jerked his head back, with its straggling strand of hair, whenever his chin hit his chest. The screech of gulls fighting over the party-goers’ leftovers pierced the silence without eclipsing the loudspeaker music that continued to inhabit him despite the fists of intoxication methodically pummeling his aching temple from within. His throat ground out clanging cymbal sounds, and his fingers tapped to a rhythm lost periodically to sleep.

His friend, Martin, stayed sober, not liking the taste of beer, and watched over the boy who, as far as he knew, had never had a drink before. He pulled some cigarette paper and a sandwich bag of weed from his jacket and rolled himself a joint; he inhaled the marijuana’s acrid smoke, releasing it in short puffs that evaporated into the cool air. Worried about the boy’s father’s reaction, his thoughts turned to his bond with his friend, barely sixteen and already so full of sorrow, so similar to the sting of his own suffering; the stockpiling of fear, steep mountains to be scaled with only hope for crampons, the hope of avoiding a fall that could break a spine, crumple legs, reduce bones to dust, the exhaustion of misfortune, a call, a cry for an oasis of supreme tranquility, a time of calm, he knew all about it. The gaping crevasse of the future, the unknown to be crossed, the road with its many obscure, impenetrable, terrifying crossroads, barred from good fortune: together they shared the nothingness of adolescence. He threw the roach into the ruins of the bonfire, leaned toward his companion, shook him awake, “Hey, man! We’ve gotta get a move on, c’mon!”

He half-carried his friend draped across his shoulders, breathing loudly like a seal; with Martin’s unhealthy obesity causing his legs to buckle, they advanced in fits and starts until the house came into view. The child’s jeans were all muddy, his jacket spattered with vomit. He slumped to the floor in the entrance, cursing and demanding to be left alone.