The rush of the river seems it should block out the possibility of any other noise. It doesn't. Even against that continuous rumble she can hear the snap of a opening beer can, then the laugh of a man. That is the single word that sparks a thousand images against the inside of her head: Man. Then mushroom clouds, shotgun being fired, piles of corpses, yelling dictators, chanting mops, splashes of blood..., as if she were not also human. A boy once said she was awkward on land, like a duck or some other creature more used to swimming than walking. He was not wrong; she could swim before she could walk. He also never saw her on stones that roll or paths uneven by nature rather than by design, faulty or otherwise. She walked the woods long before her feet ever knew what it would be to become accustomed to the monotony of pavement. The man's white tee shirt--his defining physical feature at this distance--moves further out of the trees and as if connected to him by an invisible fulcrum she slowly steps back from the edge of the rapids into the shadow of the trees.