By Logan Ward

When I was growing up in small-town South Carolina, the neighborhood pool was the center of my summer universe. My friends and I spent all day, every day in and around its sparkling chlorine coolness, parentless, kept from drowning by red-suited teens but otherwise free to explore the frontiers of independence. We ran in packs, threadbare ovals worn into our Birdwell Beach Britches from the concrete deck. It was Lord of the Flies with a Coke machine and a lifeguard’s whistle for a conch.