“Why do they always crawl up?” I asked.

“Hmm?” Anthony continued his careful inspection of the jar. Light pulsated in his pale eyes.

“It's pointless. There's nothing but glass up there.” I rolled onto my back. The lightning bugs continued their journey, now ascending toward the sky.

“Perhaps they are just trying to get a good view of the road before setting their course,” he countered.

“Somehow, I doubt that insects are capable of that much forethought.”

“Don't assume what you have no way of knowing.”

“Oh my gosh, Anthony, stop being so pretentious,” I groaned.

“Moi? Pretentious?” He gave a crooked grin. “I thought it was the job of a teenager to be pretentious.”

“You're hardly the average teenager.” I smirked.

“Indeed. I'll have you know I possess the gray matter of someone quadruple my sixteen years. Apparently neurons age poorly without oxygen.”

“Why don't you and your supremely aged neurons explain to me the real reason why insects always climb up?” I encouraged a shift in the conversation.

“They are simply exploring possibilities.”

“They can't escape through glass.”

“Indeed. But they must discern that themselves. Bugs do not assume. They must know and be convinced of all their options. It's a shame humans so rarely follow their example.”

He reached out and tilted the jar, suspending part of its rim above the ground. I reached for a nearby rock, and by doing so, caught a glimpse of the ugly metal cylinder sitting on the concrete behind Anthony. The ache in my chest returned, timid at first, and then like a wave.

I handed him the stone, and his cold fingers briefly tangled with mine as it rolled into his palm. He wedged it beneath the rim and scrutinized the lightning bugs as they continued to circle the upper perimeter of the jar. I sighed, ridding the air poisoned by grief from my lungs, then settled into a sprawled position beside him. “Which one do you think will escape first?”

“The one who dies first.”

“How can he escape if he dies first?”

“He will die after he escapes. He's too confident.”

As if on cue, a lightning bug plummeted from his perch. He remained still for a moment, likely stunned by his abrupt descent. Then, instead of resuming his climb, he sensed the cool, dusky air and emerged from beneath the suspended rim. I expected him to hastily unfurl his wings and flee the scene, but he wandered in the vicinity of the jar, ambling over rocks and roots. I could almost hear him whistling to himself, reveling in his freedom yet accomplishing nothing with it.

Anthony shot me a grin. Gloating pleasure sparkled in his eyes. I grinned back but had to lower my eyes as pain tightened my chest. I longed to see his face without the oxygen tube, but of course it would be selfish to ask him to take it off. It wasn't that it disturbed me, but I so wanted to remember Anthony as exceedingly more than his disease.

“Why is it that confidence is lauded as such an admirable trait? Confidence is so often foolish,” he mused, eyes following the confident lightning bug. “For instance, can you control where the pebbles lie or the concrete buckles?” He traced his finger precisely along a crack.

“I can control this pebble.” I flicked one at him.

“You have gravity and friction to thank for the trajectory and velocity of that pebble's journey, and, regrettably, humans do not have control over elements of physics. So, should we really be confident in all that we cannot control and do not even understand?” A pause, then abruptly, “Willow, do you know how magnetism works?”

“It's because of the north and south poles and how the electrons in atoms attract to them.” I raised an eyebrow.

“Essentially, yes. You understand magnetism in an obscure sense, though a correct one, in the same way that I vaguely understand how my body can create something that chews holes in my lungs.”

“Anthony …” The ache broadsided me again.

“But what we really understand is what we feel. You feel the tug of two magnets as they resist you or each other. I feel the searing lack of oxygen in my chest when my lungs decide they are tired of being lungs. We can only have confidence in what we feel, what we touch.”

“And the things we can't touch? God? And love?”

“Those are not unfelt, Willow. Every time you feel someone's arms wrap around you, you feel love. And not everyone is convinced of a God, but those who are can see Him in everything. In breezes and whispers and lightning bugs. All is tangible.” He shrugged. “I suppose I am only saying that it is foolish to put faith in things you cannot trust. If you cannot trust it, it does not deserve your confidence.”

I stared silently at the confident lightning bug, now illuminating the concrete in spasmodic bursts of light. He trusted that there were no dangers in the street, yet he had no power over my foot if I decided to stomp on him. Anthony's gaze lingered on me for a moment, giving me time to make a rebuttal, but I was at a loss. He tilted his head toward the last rays of light spreading from the horizon, suddenly uninterested in the metaphorical resonance of lightning bugs. “It's getting dark. C'mon, they'll find their way out eventually.”

“No, let's watch.” I clawed desperately for the last shreds of tranquility dancing from my reach.

“It's too dark for headlights to see us.”

“There are no cars,” I persisted.

“You are too confident, Willow Clarke.” A smile played on his lips as he levied himself from the asphalt, his foot inadvertently clanging against his oxygen tank as he rose. I froze as the last shred of euphoria screamed in protest, and then, like an animal unleashed, ripped itself from us violently.

Anthony swayed slightly as he got to his feet, and I saw him struggle for air. His chest heaved.

“You all right?”

“Superb,” he replied, his voice breathy and weak. I was about to scrabble from the concrete when a soft growl I hadn't quite been aware of seemed to intensify. I raised my head to locate its source, and then it rushed in upon us all at once, without direction. Before my brain could even be made aware of the location of my limbs, the thunder morphed into a hideous shriek and light flooded every inch of my body until my skin burned. Then the brightness evaporated and night roared, encompassing all.

As dusk returned, as my scream echoed in the air, as the smoke rose from the crushed engine of the car wrapped around a nearby tree, I became aware of guts strewn across the asphalt. They belonged to the confident lightning bug.