1993, a tiny rural town in Southern USA. The heat of the summer and chirps of cicadas woke Shōko up, well before her alarm would ring. Her tank top that she slept in was damp with sweat—gross. The August humidity in this godforsaken town was practically hellish. 5AM, the red numbers on her clock read—her mom would already be awake then, getting ready for her morning shift at the gas station diner. Shōko got up, stretching her limbs, heading to the kitchen, where her mom was tying her apron and downing a cup of black coffee, whilst also scanning yesterday’s newspaper that she didn’t have time to read. Their small radio was on, crackly and quiet. “Hey, mom,” she mumbled, a yawn slipping past her lips. “Hi, baby,” her mom said, smiling. “You’re up early.” “Yeah, couldn’t sleep,” Shōko said, rubbing her eyes. “I’m gonna go for a run to wake me up.” She decided that then and there, but a morning run always helped her feel like less of a couch-potato. Besides, the sunrise would be pretty rad. Her mom hummed absentmindedly, a hairpin between her teeth. She gave Shōko a kiss on the head, to which she looked away. “Okay, hon. I’m covering Mary’s shift, so I won’t be home when you get back from school. Dinner’s in the fridge.” Shōko nodded. She headed out soon after, running past cornfields and the river banks, onto the unpaved roads. There was no one out, apart from Mr Clifton, an old man with a lot of dogs—Shōko waved hi to him. When she was out-of-breath, she stopped by the side of the road, crossing to get to the forest-y area opposite it. A few minutes into the field, up a small hill, there was a rotting tree log there, right by a riverbank, and the trees didn’t obscure the view of the sunrise. Shōko went there often—and liked that the place was her spot, because she didn’t want seniors from school littering it with beer cans and cigarette butts. But, there was already someone there. A girl, her age, who she’d never seen before. Someone new, in this town?