Whitefish River Red Bull and minivans

Trivial things do not catch the boy's attention as often as they used to; he doesn't do things like marvel at the stars or wonder about towering trees and fathomless waters, as he did when he was much younger. The young Corten's ability to read the world's poetry faded some time ago, perhaps consumed by the flames that had taken his birthplace — but sometimes, he catches the barest hint of a phrase.
Today it is in the shimmering reflection of sunlight across the river's rippling surface, in the way it burns him to focus on the brilliant silver flashes. He wonders if it could be a metaphor for love or something. It's pretty, but it hurts, he thinks, pleased with his own genius. His steps slow to a stop as his thoughts of love and hurt take the shape of a memory, sharp and unwanted. He stiffens, air leaving his lungs as the memory swallows him whole — and for a few moments, he sees nothing of the world around him.