It was stifling hot. Her hair, wet with sweat, was pulled into a severe ponytail. Her skin glistened with baby oil and iodine, giving it a rusty sheen. Her legs stuck to the plastic webbing of her lounge chair. The red indentations left by the webbing mimicked the small weave on individual straps and would take hours to fade.
Lightly dozing, she lost track of time, and neglected to turn over so her summer color was uniform.
Upon waking, she opened a single eye, only to see a kettle of buzzards cycling above waiting for her to be done cooking.
Thin spiral notebook 