The sun slowly clouds over. The yellow light turns milky. Some people say the phenomenon is caused by forest fires a few hundred kilometres to the north. There’s even a trace of burnt wood in the air. It hasn’t rained in weeks, and the land has become a tinderbox.

At the campsite I strum a few chords. In under twenty minutes my first admirer shows up: He tells me his friend is turning eighteen, and a bunch of his buddies are up here to celebrate. With my baby face, I have no problem shaving a few years off my actual age. They invite me over to their campfire, which they’re keeping a close eye on in these dry conditions.

The forecast calls for storms tonight. I offer my hotel room if it gets so bad their tents can’t handle the rain. I say I’m out here after a recent breakup, needed a change of scene, a little fun. They tell me all about their lives. I discreetly make myself responsive to their clumsy seduction efforts. I drink very little though no one notices. After midnight several of them pass out. I pick up the most persistent and take him back to my room. He’s cute, and he’s drunk, and he passes out on the bed, fast asleep without my even having to make him any promises. If he wakes up, I’ll pretend I went back to the fire. I’ll seduce them all one at a time, if that’s what it takes.

The road is deserted, the night black. I ride my bike, scarcely able to see where I’m going. I can just barely make out the line marking the centre of the lane. I follow it.

I hear them before I see them. First their music, then their voices. They’re talking loud and laughing. Revving their engines. There’s no shortage of noise to drown out the sounds I’m making. I count nine people total: four men, five women. Each has a cellphone. I’ll have to destroy those; who knows what they could catch on film or snap a photo of. Two sports cars with oversized wheels sit at the starting line. I’ll wait for them at the finish line. In the moonless night, I’m invisible.

Two new cars show up and six more people spill out. I should have brought more ammo. I’m not a good enough shot to hit a target moving three hundred kilometres per hour. So I wait. The winner will be first served.