There are few things better than an Ohio rain. The air smells like wet ground, just like those nineteen-nineties nights on family camping trips. I remember walking the dark wet paths, toothbrush in one hand, flashlight in the other. No matter where I was… what state, what country, the forest always had the same look about it, the same smell. I can still see my sister’s shadow on the gravel road ahead of me and hear the scuffling of my flip-flops as I hurry after her. In all our childhood, I never remember her being afraid of the dark.