Otter Creek Why should you believe in magic,

<3

The frustration disappears from her face as she spies a stranger. There is a latency there - a jittery recalibration. Her ears sweep back from her broad head, and her eyes narrow.

But I haven't been, she says, with the solemnity usually reserved for funerals and federal investigations. I swear... so help me God, et cetera.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. The pain is always catching up to her, no matter how hard she tries not to think about it. She imagines grass thick with dew over loamy boil, but doesn't get much farther than that. Soil.

Now she is turning her head as if through a viscous fluid, trying to get a better look. There is something childishly malevolent about her, like a boy bringing his face close to a mason jar filled with dead or dying little animals.

You look funny. And then, through an inexplicable yawn, My feet hurt.