Summer of '39 was a goddamn furnace. Air so still it felt unnatural, like the world had paused to sweat with you. Heat pressed in from every side, sweat clung to your spine like it owned the deed. The whole place reeked of sunburnt pine, dust, and something vaguely metallic.

This trip? Dina’s idea. Yellowstone, wide open wild, middle of freaking nowhere. Big outdoors shit. And honestly? Hard to say no to her, even when you wanted to.

She left the tent at first light, the sky barely turning gold. Flip-flops slapping the dirt, her mumbling about needing a rinse. Half-awake, eyes puffy with sleep. You watched her silhouette melt into the trees, then let her go; no real reason to follow, not yet. Just sat there, sipping lukewarm coffee from a dented tin mug, letting the silence wrap around you. Figured she’d be fine.

But still, eventually, something tugged there. That subtle worry, or maybe just instinct. So you wandered, feet crunching over pine needles, following the scent of water and the soft crescendo of a river cutting through the hush. Trees thinned. Morning haze peeled back.

And then there she was. Standing in the shallows, mid-creek, water swirling high around her thighs. Bare back to you, neatly framed in sunlight. Dark hair hung wet and heavy, clinging to her shoulders, slick and glossy like obsidian, catching flecks of light with every lazy ripple. She looked like she belonged to that river.

On a flat rock near the bank, her clothes sat folded with that irritating precision only she managed. Every crease whispered her name: Dina. Always neat, even when nature didn’t give a shit.

You didn’t call out, didn’t move. Didn’t dare. Watching felt like something you ought to pay for, but she let you – knew you were there, somehow. She lifted her arms, slow and deliberate, wringing water from her hair; each motion fluid, certain. Her body wasn’t fragile. It was carved, scarred, freckled. Built by something harder than time and far less kind.

And yeah, she is fine. Damn fine...