I went to Fire Island a few summers ago for a friend’s bachelorette party. We drank on the beach, drank out of plastic cups, drank in the mornings to kill our hangovers. We played board games in the sand, ate fried seafood for lunch, and laughed for three days straight. Fire Island doesn’t allow cars on the island, so you have to walk everywhere. It’s actually kind of nice because the streets are tiny and heavily shaded and lined with little houses that have porches and flags and mailboxes brandishing someone’s family name. People use wagons to cart stuff around on the island– bright red wagons full of groceries and towels and charcoal and tired puppies and beach supplies and who knows what else. On our first day there, we found three young girls selling painted seashells for a dollar in front of their house. I loved my shell– “life’s a wagon” it read. There was something kind of simple and unclear about it, but the stance also felt definitive. Yes, ladies, you’re right. Maybe life is a wagon– something you pack up and tug around, and for the most part you know what’s in there, but every once in a while you might discover something kind of new and fun about your very own bright red wagon.