Small waves lap onto the shore. The setting sun reflects off the lake. Madeline, ankle-deep in water, scoops a minnow into her hands.

“I’m seven, so I can go to our beach all by myself,” she says, smiling at the tiny fish. It wriggles in her palms. “But you’re just a baby, so you have to go home.”

She lowers her palms to the surface. The minnow darts away. A loon calls. Madeline steps onto the dry sand, and squats to address the sand fleas.

“I hope you’re not too hot in there,” she says to them. “It was so hot out today. It was so hot it was like fire. No, hot like lava. No, like being on fire inside a volcano on the sun!”

A loud crack pierces through the hum of mosquitoes. Madeline sighs. She knows the sound all too well. It’s the kitchen window being cranked open. Her family’s northern Alberta lake home is a charming old two-storey, but it is unforgivably squeaky.

“Time to come in,” her mother calls.

A warm breeze passes by. Madeline trudges through the sand and up the stairs to the porch. The wooden planks are warm against her feet from the day’s heat. The light is fading quickly, and on a small glass table beside the doorway, the bug light burns brighter. But more importantly, the table is where Madeline keeps her most prized possession: her self-made fairy house.

A moth rests on the popsicle-stick roof.

“Hi moth,” she says. Madeline gently pinches its fuzzy torso. With her free hand, she traces its wings, which flutter slowly. Madeline looks at the bug lamp, which is bright and warm. She returns her attention to the moth, which is beautiful and delicate. Can moths see in the dark? Do they get cold? Why do moths love the light?

Madeline thrusts her palms toward the lamp. Unprepared for flight, the moth slams into the coils. The moth’s spine contorts. Its legs spasm. Madeline gasps. Sparks flash. The wings vaporize in a blue flame. The moth must have felt hot. No, Madeline decides, it must feel like fire inside a volcano on the sun.