She’s already pulled out her little notebook again, and sets it on her knees.

My mom’s camera is tucked into the bag hanging across my back, and I pull it out and loop it around my neck before pulling a water bottle out. I hold it out to Olivia. “It’s warm. Sorry.”

She takes it and smiles. “Thanks.” Her eyes fall on the camera. “You’re into photography too?”

“I’m actually a pretty horrible photographer. I’m just taking some reference photos so I can paint it back home.”

She hands the water bottle back to me and I take a drink. “I didn’t know that was a thing,” she says.

“You thought every painting ever painted was done while someone sat in that very spot?” I’ve probably used up my sarcasm quota with Olivia today, but I can’t help myself.

“Yes.” She gives me an exaggerated smile. “Like in a movie. A man in a little chair with an easel in front of him. In a beret.” She laughs. “I guess I just never thought of it, period. You think about the book on the shelf … not the writer sitting at their desk.”

“—Or on a dune.”

“Or on a dune.”

“I actually have a spot in the dunes where I’ve been doing a lot of my drawing lately.”

She nods like she’s not sure what she’s supposed to say to me. She fidgets with the pen that’s pinched between her knuckles. “Maybe you could show me sometime? I’m sort of lacking inspiration these days.”

“You’d probably need to flip for it, or something?”

She smiles. “Probably.”

“It’s a hike,” I warn. “Not as bad as this one, but still.”

“I can handle that.” She laughs. “I’ll just pack my inhaler so I don’t die.”

OLIVIA

When I was eight, a body washed up on shore at one of the beaches just north of us. I was living with my mom, and I remember her reading the newspaper article out loud at the little table in our kitchen, like she was the narrator of a gruesome movie. Gasping at the descriptions, the way the body had been affected by its time in the water. No limbs. That’s all I could think about. This stump of a person lying on the beach. How close someone would have gotten before realizing what it was. God, I still get goose bumps thinking about it. I refused to go in the lake that entire summer. Even the next summer, every time anything touched me I was sure it was a severed limb or something. Usually it was just a floating stick, or a stray plastic bag, or something completely innocuous. I was always sure nothing would freak me out more than that.