It was a wide, lazy, shallow river that cut through the rural county. The Lackahatchee on the map, the Hatch to the locals.
And every summer it was the local hot spot. Teenage girls from Camp Silverbrook would occupy the left bank while the boys from Camp Thunderwood owned the right.
But sometimes, albeit rarely, the two met in the middle…
Henry and Sarah floated beneath the branches of the weeping willow, away from the prying eyes of counselors and visiting parents.
They gazed into each other’s eyes, their hands intertwined.
It would be a kiss neither would ever forget.
The Weekday One Hundred 