A guy about my age is standing there in a blue baseball cap and a Cubs T-shirt that fits him perfectly. He looks like he be­longs in the team’s dugout, although his hat has a cursive L on the front that I don’t recognize. A small tuft of hair curls at his forehead. He has a warm-brown complexion and kind, dark eyes that are set on me. He’s standing with his hands loosely clasped together, ready to sign, with a woven bracelet around his wrist, perhaps from last summer.

My heart is racing, and I’m not sure if it’s from lifting the bag or from realizing who helped me.

“Thank you,” I say breathlessly.

“You’re welcome,” he signs. He points past me and signs something else.

I freeze. I want to answer him in sign, but I’m unsure exactly what he’s asking. He gives a small shrug, likely knowing that I didn’t understand, and walks around me to grab his backpack from his bunk . . . which is directly below mine. Of all the beds I could have chosen! At least he won’t be able to hear me if I snore in my sleep.

“Are you new this year?” he asks, this time mouthing the words a little bit, which I know is purely for my benefit.

“Um, no,” I say, begging my brain to remember any of the ASL I practiced. “Long time ago, I was here,” I say and sign. “As a camper.”

“Wait . . . ” He tilts his head to the side. His wonderfully ex­pressive eyebrows do a lot of communicating for him as he raises them and leans forward. “I think I remember you. Bug, right?”

“Whoa,” I say and sign. “Yes! You were a camper here, too?” I am certain I would remember him.

“Yeah, and then ————,” he signs. I don’t follow most of his response, but he raises his hand from his chest to his head, signing that he’s grown taller. “I look different, maybe.”

“Oh right, good,” I say and sign, nodding while my brain races to try to process more of what he signed.

“Good?” he asks, his eyebrows raised and a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Good, as in, I think I remember you now, too,” I say and sign quickly, cursing my limited vocabulary and feeling the blush rise on my cheeks. I stare down at his worn running sneakers that are caked in dry mud and laced with bright-green cords.

“I’m I————,” he signs.

“Sorry,” I say, hoping that my frustration at my lacking ASL doesn’t come across as overly apologetic. “Again, please.”

He smiles and patiently spells out his name again. “I-s-a-a-c.”

“L-i-l-” But my hand is shaking, and I mess up, jumbling my letters. I close my hand into a fist, take a brief pause, and start again. “L-i-l-a-h.”