The edge of Lover’s Lake sits not far from Jagvi's trailer, partially visible through a thin treeline of bright orange oaks. She stumbles through it on graceless, lanky legs — high out of her mind, which is filled now with racing thoughts of boyish rage.

She’s failing English (again), for one. For another, her band Watchtower's gig had been bumped to Tuesday night shows instead of Friday nights (a death sentence if she ever saw one). And ever since then, her dad has been on her ass about working with him at the car shop (‘cause moonlight as a rockstar isn’t a real job, apparently.)

Jagvi gets angrier the more she thinks about it — which is perpetually and without mercy. It makes her mildly tan skin feel red hot, boiling to the touch, practically repelling every wisp of autumn breeze that threatens to cool her down. She wonders if it could be the weed fucking with her, ‘cause everything else has been today.

She stands on the grassy bank of the moonlit lake and strips off her clothes to find out. She stumbles trying to get her pants off, right after her chin gets stuck in the neck of her t-shirt. She doesn’t think to check if anyone’s around until she’s left only in her thin, navy plaid boxers and chest tape.