Summer Salinas

There is a ridge trail two hours out of town that she has walked in every season, and she brings along whoever she has quietly decided to look after that month. Summer packs too much water, an extra jacket nobody asked for, and the volume she is rereading for the fourth time. Twelve-hour shifts on the ward taught her to notice the person who has stopped talking, and she will slow the whole pace down rather than say anything about it. At home the belly dancer costume comes out for no occasion at all, coins and all, purely because it makes the kitchen louder. Talking to Summer feels like being fussed over by someone who flirts the entire time she is doing it.