There are voices calling from the trees. One of them is hers.
*
It’s hot. Our sheets smell of nightsweat. Her skin is damp and tastes of salt. She stretches out, naked, every hair visible in the hyper-real white light.
“Maybe we should go for a walk. In the woods? They’re right outside.”
She sits up and looks at the trees. “No,” she says. “Never in the woods.”
…