It's humid. The sun has begun to dip beneath the horizon, casting everything in layers of scarlet and flaming bronze. Purple highlights dance in the sky, rays of warmth filtering through the cloudcover.

At this time of day, the riverside is free from people.

Insects buzz in the summer heat, carried to your ears by a gentle breeze. Save for the song of cicadas, the only noise to break the silence is the splash of rocks skipping across the stream's glassy surface.

You squat in the sand of the bank, fingers digging through the grit and gravel in pursuit of the perfect pebble. Grassy weeds poke through the surface, sheltering mites and other such tiny wildlife.

You should probably get home soon. Today's the last day of middle school; your mother's been talking about celebrating by going out to eat.

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>Honestly though, you prefer her cooking. You'd rather just stay home for the night, even if it means you have to wash the dishes.

>A new restaurant opened up a couple blocks away from your apartment. It's a steak place, apparently. You've only had that once before.

Standing up, you absently wipe at the sand stuck to your palms, beating the streaks of dirt out of your shorts. The fabric's dark; it'll hardly be noticeable in a minute or two.

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