She’s all mismatched socks and knuckle freckles, cinnamon suntan sprinkled along neat lines. Her fingers worry over the rim of a white ceramic mug. Every time the door opens and a breeze plays over the back of her neck, she looks over her shoulder. Spots of light catch on her mouth like raindrops. Tremble with her breath. She waits, poised like a fox in the grass, for someone.

Bio: Kelsey Dean