The Geometry Of Shame

1. The Rock (Absolutely, Totally, Helplessly Naked)

The rock jutted out above the azure mirror of the water, as if a cliff had run a couple of meters from the shore just to bask in the sun itself. Lying upon it, like offerings to a sea nymph, were two girls. Lyudmila, whose scarlet swimsuit lay crumpled nearby like a poppy, and Milana, still clad in her black one, but with the look of a person whose resolve wavered at the very edge between textile and freedom.

"Are we sure this is allowed here?" Milana asked quietly. Her black swimsuit, as if sensing the threat, pressed into her body more tightly than before.

"It's always like this here," Lyudmila replied with the lazy assurance of a pelican at sunset. "It's all locals. Gulls and dolphins."

Milana's swimsuit surrendered. A wave quietly smacked the rock, as if approving this act of capitulation. Milana lay down, but her posture was rigid with tension. She instinctively covered her chest with her forearm, and in that moment, she suddenly realized how acutely and unfamiliar the cool sea air felt on her naked skin.

Not a minute passed before the water stirred. It was Sergey. He swam the way a wardrobe would swim: straight, solidly, and with an expression on his face as if he were solving a complex theorem in his head.

"Oh, hello, you're…" Sergey noticed them and froze by the rock, like a startled water sprite.

"Go away!" Milana exclaimed, curling up like a shrimp.

"Just a sec, gotta catch my breath," he croaked, grabbing the rock like a drowning man clutching at a plot twist. After hanging there for a minute, emitting sounds that resembled a malfunctioning compressor, it finally swam away, leaving behind a trail of bubbles and a feeling of feminine confusion.

"That was a risk after all," Milana muttered.

"Mila, who cares about us," Lyudmila began lazily, but her phrase was instantly crossed out by the growing roar of an engine.

A boat. Snow-white, like a dentist's jaw, it cruised leisurely along the shore. Aboard were a dozen idle tourists, with hats, cameras, and a heightened sense of humor.

"Ooh-la-la, Cannes!" someone shouted from the deck.

"Hollywood's taking notes!" another chimed in and pulled out a phone with the determined air of a war photojournalist.

Milana jumped up. Her brain switched off, ceding control to ancient instincts. Goosebumps ran across her skin, not from the cold; they were a frantic, traitorous heat that began deep in her belly, forcing her skin into an unnaturally tight canvas under the tourists' gaze. The desperate need to hide fought a growing, shameful awareness of her own exposure, an almost dizzying feeling that made her legs tremble. She covered her breasts with an elbow, her hips with a hand, and her face with burning embarrassment. "Don't you dare film! This is... this is illegal! I'll call... someone right now!" her scream was like a dish of words made without a recipe.

"People always sunbathe like this here," Lyudmila said unperturbed, without getting up. She looked at the sea, not the lenses. "It's a ritual cleansing! We're washing away the sins of capitalism! Don't distract the sea gods!"

"Aha, a photoshoot! Can I join in? I can be the tanning assistant!" laughter erupted.

Milana darted back and forth. Her attempts to cover up were as desperate and as successful as an umbrella in a hurricane. She tried to shield her chest with one arm, but it treacherously refused to hide completely, straining to look straight into the lenses. With a desperate cry of "don't look at me!" Milana pressed both palms to her chest, but only pointed out more precisely where not to look. The man with the camera's gaze skimmed over her—not crudely, but precisely, fixing every detail.

Her hands flew up to cover her face, exposing everything else. They returned to her chest. She glanced sharply down at her utterly unprotected hips, flat stomach, and everything below. She tried to cover herself by lifting one bent knee, lost her balance, and, flailing her arms awkwardly, dropped onto all fours. The whole scene was so silly, so ridiculous. And somehow, so degradingly arousing.

"Lyuda, tell them! Please, say something!" Milana moaned.

"We're filming a project about freedom, the body, the sun," Lyudmila explained, as if she were hearing this impromptu speech for the first time herself.

"...and shame!" a tourist in a pineapple-print hat chipped in.

The boat came closer. Milana, at the peak of her despair, tried to cover herself with a fist-sized pebble.

"Leave us alone! This isn't a show! I don't want you to see this!"

"Then why are we seeing it?" the tourist reasonably inquired.

They laughed a little more and, satisfied as if they'd watched a short film, motored away. The wake from the boat, treacherous and strong, hit the rock. Milana's black swimsuit was torn off and washed out to sea.

"It" she whispered, "it floated away."

"Not 'it.' 'That,'" Lyudmila corrected, surveying the sea. "That was the last thread of civilization."

Milana sat up, hugging her knees. A quiet, heartrending laugh escaped her. "I'm not swimming back naked. Let the sharks eat me."

"We'll figure something out," Lyuda sighed. "I lost my head too. You shouldn't have panicked like that. It turned out as it always does: we just wanted sun, and we got sun with a comedy."

They sat on the rock. The wind ruffled their hair. The waves were lazy again. Only their faces showed weariness, like after a long play performed without rehearsal. And the last heat ran through Milana's body—no longer of fear, but of something ancient, primal, like the rock itself.

2. The Rock (Milana's Perspective)

It all starts with diplomatic negotiations with your own conscience.

"It's the best way to get an even tan," Lyuda says, and her voice sounds as if she's quoting some ancient, immutable truth.

And I nod. Because to say out loud, "No, I'm scared, I'm ashamed, I'm not that kind of person" means admitting your own cowardice. And I'm not a coward, am I? I'm a modern girl on a seaside vacation. There's not a soul around. Almost. I decided to ignore that "almost" at the time. Mistake number one.

We take off our swimsuits. Lyuda—with one light, practiced movement, like a butterfly shedding a cocoon. I—slowly and clumsily, as if I'm peeling off a second skin. My black swimsuit feels like the last bastion of civilization.

The rock under my naked body feels strange—warm, rough with salt, alive. Like the coarse, warm skin of some prehistoric animal.

Lyuda immediately reclined. A pose for the cover of "Wild Vacation" magazine. Nothing bothers her. I think if aliens landed on the shore right now, she'd just lazily lift her head and say, "Boys, do you happen to know the time?"

I sat down, hugging my knees. My body, unaccustomed to so much sun and air, contracted. I stealthily, like a spy, scanned the horizon. The sea. The distant shore. Bushes. Silence. A tight, unpleasant knot of anxiety slowly twisted in my solar plexus.

And then—a splash. Right by our rock. A head surfaces from the water. Serёzha.

God. Not him.

My brain, that accommodating traitor, instantly painted a picture: Serёzha swims here, sees us, and. And what "and"? I didn't have time to finish the thought, because my body reacted first. I tensed up as if I'd been punched in the gut.

"Tired, just gonna rest here for a bit," he mumbled, and I realized I was staring at him with silent horror in my eyes.

I wanted to yell, "Swim on! Be tired somewhere else!" but Lyuda just snorted, as if he were a nuisance, but a minor one. He hung by the rock, snorting, and I sat, turned into a pillar of salt, praying to all the sea gods for him to go away quickly. He swam off. But the knot in my solar plexus didn't disappear. It merely went into hiding.

It was at that moment I heard a motor.

At first, it was just a sound. Insignificant, distant. But it grew. Turned into a persistent, threatening hum. It was approaching. And the knot of anxiety in my chest instantly swelled to the size of an ice ball.

"Lyuda," I whispered.

"Stay calm," she replied, but I saw how she tensed up.

And then, from behind the reef, it appeared. The boat. And it wasn't the end of the world. It was worse. It was my own little floating apocalypse. With passengers.

After that, my body stopped obeying me. It began living its own, panicky life. I jumped up. Sat down. Jumped up again. My hands flew, trying to cover everything at once, but I had a treacherously large amount of body and only two hands. Every movement was a disaster. Cover your chest—you expose everything else. Try to squat down to become smaller—you put your back and buttocks on display. It was a monstrous, humiliating ballet.

And they were getting closer. I saw their faces. Smiling. Curious. I saw the lenses pointed at me. And I was naked. Not just without a swimsuit. But absolutely, totally, helplessly naked. Every cell of my skin burned under their gaze.

"Please, don't film!" the voice that tore from my lips was alien. Shrilly, pitifully.

I heard Lyuda saying something about a "free zone" and a "creative project." But her words scattered before they reached the boat. Because the main exhibit of this "project" was me. The jerky, panicking, completely naked model who clearly hadn't signed up for this role. Their laughter was the most frightening sound. It wasn't malicious, no. It was cheerful, carefree. They were being entertained. By my horror. By my shame.

"Maybe we should swim closer? See what the concept is?" came from the deck.

And I froze. Froze like an animal in headlights. I imagined them swimming closer. Reaching out. Looking at me up close. And from that terror, I stopped moving.

It was at that moment the universe, possessing, apparently, a peculiar sense of humor, decided to strike the final blow. The boat motored away. A wave, lazy and warm, licked our rock.

And my swimsuit, my only connection to the world of clothed people, my hope for salvation, smoothly slipped into the water. It didn't sink. It floated. Slowly, surely, like a small black ship setting off on a grand voyage. It had defected.

"It floated away," I whispered, unable to take my eyes off it.

"What floated away?" Lyuda turned around.

"The swimsuit."

The air ran out. I looked at the distant shore, which I somehow had to get back to. And I knew it was impossible. I was trapped. Naked. Not like in nudist jokes, not like in a movie. For real. Without a script. Under the merciless sun and the invisible, but still palpable, gaze of the whole world.

3. The Return

After the theater of the absurd sailed away towards the lighthouse, we sat on the rock like two retired Sirens. Only one of us—self-assured, as if wearing an invisible nudist diploma—and the second—me—trembling like a boiled octopus.

My body was still vibrating as if after an electric shock. I hugged my knees so tightly, I was afraid of crumbling into pieces. And Lyuda. Lyuda was already returning to reality. Calmly, methodically, like a soldier reassembling a rifle after battle, she fastened the bra of her red swimsuit. The click of the plastic clasp sounded in that silence like a gunshot.

"Well, friend, time to swim back," she said, raising her gaze to the sky, as if it were responsible for the tides and our return schedule.

I looked at her with a tragedy in my eyes on the level of "Romeo left, and I have no dress." "I don't have a swimsuit."

She looked at me like a child who forgot a backpack on the bus. "Well, take mine."

"Take?" I blinked so frequently that the gulls above us seemed to start synchronizing.

"Literally," Lyudmila was already pulling off her bottoms. "I've already endured a whole scene today. It's not my first time."

I tried to find words, but the internal monologue was running in panic mode: "This is not right. This is improper." It felt like trying to put on someone else's courage that was the wrong size for you. I simply couldn't swim back naked. Not in the figurative, but in the most literal sense of that horror.

"Listen," Lyudmila said, frowning slightly, "are you angry with me?"

I bristled. "No! Well no. I'm just... I wasn't angry. I was envious."

Envious of how easy everything was for her. As if she was born on the beach, not carrying anxiety in her hand luggage. I was envious and angry—at my own foolish program of "being a good girl," drilled into me since childhood. Angry that I couldn't treat my own body with the same ease and mockery.

"I... I can't be like that," I mumbled. "Be like you."

"Like what?" she spoke softly, but insistently. "Not afraid? Or good at pretending not to be afraid?"

I couldn't find an answer. She silently handed me her swimsuit. It was still warm. From her body. From the sun. From her composure.

With trembling, clumsy fingers, I began to pull on her red swimsuit. Someone else's. Too bright. It was slightly too big, and it felt like trying to put on someone else's courage that was the wrong size for you. Lyudmila held my shoulder while I balanced on the wet rock.

We entered the water. I went first, she followed. The water, which had recently seemed warm, stung with icy cold. The swimsuit held, but felt foreign. Lyudmila - that was armor. I - that was fear disguised.

And yet I swam. Swimming was difficult. Not because of the waves. But because people would be there again, on the shore. Different people, but still people.

The sea was unaware of my drama. It just rocked us, as if saying, "Well, my actresses, Act Two begins."

4. The Shore

Part 1: The Public Appearance And The Mysterious Directive

When they emerged from the water, Sergey was already sitting on the shore in the posture of a man who had recognized the transience of being. Leaning against his backpack, he contemplated the horizon with an expression as if expecting an answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything from there. But his meditation was interrupted by an apparition that defied all laws of physics and common sense.

Two girls were coming out of the sea. More precisely, one was walking out, and the second seemed to flow after her, like characters from an absurdist play.

In front, marching purposefully, was Milana. In the borrowed, overly bright, and frankly ill-fitting red swimsuit, with wet hair plastered to her forehead, she looked like the leader of a victorious, albeit very small, Amazonian tribe.

And behind her, moving sideways and trying to use her friend as a human shield, scurried an absolutely naked Lyudmila. She, the guru of uninhibitedness and the apostle of naturalness, suddenly looked like a partisan caught off guard in enemy territory. For a fraction of a second, the mask of the unflappable sea nymph cracked. Lyudmila let out a tiny, mouse-like squeak and tried to simultaneously sink into the ground and become one with Milana's spine. It was a chaotic, utterly graceless movement, the complete opposite of her usual calculated nonchalance.

But just as quickly, the general within her took command of the routed troops of her composure. The brief panic vanished, replaced by a steely glint in her eyes. The situation was no longer a personal embarrassment; it was a tactical problem to be solved with audacious improvisation.

The logical circuits in Sergey's head smoked and snapped. He had seen the whole micro-performance: the Amazon, the panicked partisan, and the instantaneous transformation into a shipwreck commander. He blinked several times, hoping the image would refresh, but the mirage did not vanish.

"Uh," he said, rising. "Is that... you... from where?"

"From the rock," Lyudmila replied calmly from behind Milana's back, her voice now impossibly steady. "Now it's your turn."

"My turn for what?" Sergey squinted, as if wanting to confirm that the hallucination was localized. "Why?"

"It's necessary," Lyudmila nodded confidently. She said it as if she carried a mandate from Neptune.

Sergey looked at Milana. She shrugged. He looked back at Lyudmila—at the head peeking out from Milana's shoulder blade. "Me... right now?"

"Yes. Go," Lyudmila waved her hand like a conductor tired of waiting for his orchestra.

"The Process," echoed in Sergey's head. He didn't understand anything, but pretended to grasp it all. Nodding slowly, he stood up. Slipped his t-shirt over his head, immediately got tangled in it, took a few blind steps like at a children's party, stumbled over a perfectly flat spot, and with a loud, indignant gurgle, tumbled into the water.

"A magnificent performance," Milana said softly with a shadow of a smile.

"That's it, he's swimming away," Lyudmila sighed with relief, finally stepping out from behind her human shield. "The main thing was to give him a sense of an important mission."

Meanwhile, Sergey, the man-on-a-mission, was diligently rowing towards the rock, periodically looking back. And Milana suddenly felt herself breathing easier. As if this scene—with the naked Lyudmila, the lost Sergey, and the reality that was swapping places—was like a pill for her internal breakdown. But with the relief came a thought: she was still naked. And yet she was running the show. I was in her swimsuit—and I felt like an intern in someone else's uniform. And she stood behind me—invisible, but in control of everything. As if clothing didn't matter at all.

Part 2: Debriefing

When Sergey's figure turned into a dot, the tension eased. The air became simply hot again, not thick with awkwardness.

"You handled that well," Lyuda said quietly, finally emerging from behind Milana's shoulder. She spoke as if surprised by her own words.

Milana flinched. She turned around. "Are you laughing?"

She shook her head. There was truly no laughter in her eyes. There was something else—a strange, quiet weariness. "I thought you'd be interested to try it," she said, and it sounded like a clumsy excuse. "You agreed yourself. I didn't drag you by force."

"I know," Milana nodded. And that was true.

We fell silent. Lyuda was looking at the departing Sergey, and Milana was looking at her. The glass between them seemed to have cracked.

"It's just, you know," she began to speak almost in a whisper, looking away. "I keep pretending to be a fearless sea captain who has nothing to worry about. And then someone next to me is genuinely upset because of my 'brilliant' ideas. And in that moment, you feel such an idiot."

She spoke that word—"idiot"—with such bitter self-reproach that Milana saw in her, for the first time, not a bronze monument of confidence, but an ordinary person. Someone who is also afraid. Only not of others' gazes, but of something else. Perhaps afraid of causing harm.

She didn't know how to respond. She just stood there in her red, skin-burning swimsuit, looking at Lyudmila's completely defenseless, uncovered body. And for the first time that day, she wasn't thinking about her own nudity or Lyuda's.

It seemed she had just lost the self that had desperately tried to be like Lyudmila. And, strangely enough, it was a relief.

5. The Bay (The Beach Psychodrama)

The next day, Lyudmila suggested, "I know a little spot, slightly off the main track. It's quieter there, nobody goes. A bay. It's called 'Poseidon's Ear,' because if you look from the water, the cliffs form a perfect ear shape. Want to go? We can sunbathe in peace, without people or philosophers with cameras."

Milana nodded. Inside her, the knot from yesterday still lived—a tangle of shame, awkwardness, and anger at herself. She wanted solitude. And she wanted to understand who exactly she hadn't forgiven—Lyudmila, the tourists, or this whole ridiculous world.

The path led through a sparse forest, and everything around them—the junipers, the hot stones, the smells of salt and pine needles, the chirping of cicadas—felt like a movie set with no main character, just a woman searching for a place to put her recent awkwardness.

"The main thing is not to repeat yesterday's incident," Lyudmila said with a half-smile.

"Only if we do it in reverse," Milana replied dryly. The joke slipped out on its own, and it had less bitterness than she expected.

The bay really did resemble an ear. The stones jutting into the water created a sheltered niche. Milana stepped onto the edge—and suddenly froze. Her feet automatically dug into the path. Her consciousness hadn't had time to analyze anything, but her body had already reacted to a glitch in the landscape—to a figure that was neither a stone nor a bush. And then her brain, lazily processing the data, delivered the result: a man. Naked.

"Lyuda," she whispered, instinctively tugging her friend's sleeve. "Quiet… look."

Behind one of the rock outcrops, right by the water, stood a guy. Young, slender, without shame or excess body hair. Naked as an ancient epic.

"Really?" Lyudmila squinted with poorly concealed interest. "Well, I'll be."

Milana's first reaction was no longer stupor, but pure, unadulterated delight. The laughter she had so desperately suppressed yesterday burst forth—loud, liberating. Her gaze, so helpless yesterday, was now an instrument. She felt its weight, its power.

Milana felt something strange. Not mere curiosity, but excitement. A feeling of power. The balance she had so lacked yesterday. Then, her body was in the frame. Now, she held the phone in her hands. She slowly pulled it out, zoomed in. Click.

"Maybe we should go closer?" she suggested almost innocently.

"Of course. We need to find out if yesterday's incident will repeat itself," Lyudmila replied with a tone that said, "well, you're a big girl now."

Milana decisively stepped out from behind the rock. The guy, hearing footsteps, flinched, turned around, and jumped up. And right then, Milana let out a loud, liberating laugh. She felt an intoxicating sense of superiority. She was dressed. She was the audience.

"Hey, don't move, I'm taking a photo for our beach magazine!" Milana cackled, aiming the camera at him. "Local Fauna in its Natural Habitat."

The guy was performing a ballet that was painfully familiar to her. He froze, clutched at himself convulsively, crouching and bending slightly as if bowing to an admiring audience. He took a ridiculous step sideways. "Oh, ladies, I wasn't expecting anyone to be here." he mumbled.

"God, Lyuda, do you see this?" Milana called out, choking with laughter, without turning around. "He is... he is absolutely naked! Absolutely!" she repeated with emphasis, savoring every word. She repeated the very phrase that had tormented her yesterday.

She felt an incredible surge of energy. Yesterday's burning shame vanished, replaced by an intoxicating sense of superiority. She was dressed. She was safe. She was the spectator, the judge, and the director. His confusion was almost palpable, as was the thick fabric of her shorts, safely separating her from this chaos. Amidst her amusement, not the searing awkwardness, but a lightness arose in her chest. Like a wind passing through her. The burning sensation that had sat under her collarbones all yesterday evening was gone. She could finally laugh, and not at herself. And—with a slight twinge of guilt—she could allow herself to laugh at someone else.

"And by his spasms, is he making himself even more naked?" Lyudmila asked into the air, watching a passing seagull.

"Yes, yes, this is absolutely brilliant!" Milana laughed and aimed the camera at the guy again. "Hey, don't move, I'm taking a photo for our beach magazine! 'Local Fauna in its Natural Habitat.' Help me, Lyuda, we need to interview him!"

"Why? You're doing a fine job as the strict jury," Lyuda, who had walked closer, threw in ironically.

The guy desperately shook his head, taking another step sideways and almost slipping. Under her intense, scrutinizing gaze, he seemed to shrink, his skin breaking out in goosebumps, even though the sun was blazing relentlessly. "Ladies, please, don't! Seriously!"

And at that moment, looking at his frightened little figure in the frame of her phone screen, Milana didn't see him. She saw a distorted, frighteningly accurate mirror. There it was, that pathetic dance of panic. That convulsive attempt to become smaller, more invisible. That plea addressed to the cheerful and ruthless gods with cameras. That's me.

Milana suddenly let out a clear, good-natured laugh. She was like an actress who had stepped into a long-rehearsed role. She walked past him, lightly touching his shoulder in passing. The guy flinched. Milana stepped back.

"You know," she said, her voice suddenly quieter, "you're handling this well. If I were you, I probably would have dived away a long time ago."

He smiled awkwardly but said nothing.

"However," she paused, "I did exactly that. Then. Yesterday. When everything was the other way around. Only now do I realize what it looks like from the outside." Her voice became softer, as if something in her chest had crumbled. "I'm sorry if that was too much. I'm just... swapping places. With myself. Back then."

Lyudmila watched her from the shade, not interfering.

Epilogue

Return To Base

By evening, they were back at the camp. Changed, tanned, smelling of sun and sea salt. Milana walked slightly ahead with the grace of a person who no longer had to fear awkward movements. Lyuda shuffled behind, smiling to herself like a director pleased with the premiere of her riskiest play.

By the bonfire, in the company of other vacationers united by a common fate and a single teapot, tea was poured and mandarin peels scented the air. Someone, with the persistence of a medieval alchemist, was trying to coax fire from treacherously damp sticks; someone else hummed a tune from the 90s. Over the mountains, a peach sunset spread across the sky with the slowness of expensive liqueur.

Milana sank onto the blanket and looked at Lyuda. "You know, that whole scene in the bay. It was almost too perfect. Like something out of a play."

"Well," Lyuda said, examining a pine needle with great interest, "sometimes a good director just knows where to place the actors for maximum therapeutic effect."

Milana froze, the meaning of the words slowly sinking in. Her eyes widened. "Wait a minute. You... you set that up? The guy he was an actor?" A flash of indignation crossed her face. "You manipulated me!" But the anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a wry, disbelieving smile. She shook her head. "That was a low blow, Lyuda. And absolutely brilliant. Thank you."

Lyuda finally looked up from the pine needle and grinned. "And how long have you been directing psycho-therapeutic productions?" Milana asked, her voice a mix of awe and amusement.

"Since I became friends with a girl who can simultaneously sunbathe naked and be embarrassed about it to the point of fainting."

Milana snorted, resting her cheek on her hand. "He was cute, by the way. A little confused, but genuine."

"He's an artist. An occasional model. And a good friend. He said he hadn't received such subtly directed instructions for 'that role' in a long time, including the precise amplitude of the panic arm-flail."

"I hope he doesn't think this is our standard way of meeting people now?"

"Well, if he wants a continuation, you can explain the rules to him. Next time—you're without, he's dressed. For balance in the universe."

Milana scoffed, raising an eyebrow: "Are you suggesting I?"

"No," Lyuda interrupted, "I'm suggesting you realize you have the right to choose. Your degree of freedom. And if you ever find yourself without bottoms on a rock again—do it not for someone else, not out of compulsion, but for your own enjoyment."

Milana lowered her gaze for a second, then slowly nodded. "You know. Yesterday, I thought everything was ruined. But today it felt like the puzzle had come together. Inside. Thanks to you."

"Not me," Lyuda corrected. "Thanks to you. I just found a way for your shame to serve a higher purpose: my entertainment, and your freedom. Win-win."

Silence.

Only the rustle of the grass and the aggrieved hiss of wet wood in the fire.

Milana, with the look of a conspirator studying secret documents, twirled her phone in her fingers. On the screen was that photo. The guy, barely covered by his hands, but with an open, tenacious gaze of a professional who hadn't lost his footing even in the role of the confused. She zoomed in on the image. And froze for a second.

And then she smiled—genuinely. Without a hint of defense, without tension. Simply, easily. "I should run into him again. He has... a good gaze."

"Oh, you want to repeat the scene after all?"

"No. I want to see how Lyudmila handles stepping out of the role of the puppet master. If she can manage."

"You're such a snake."

They both laughed. This time, both of them. Without awkwardness, without a trace of anxiety remaining. They laughed like those who have already passed through the storm and emerged into the light.

Above the republic of wobbling tents, the smell of smoke rose, and the philosophical splash of someone's late-night steps at the water's edge could be heard. The camp was beginning to fall asleep, but there was still plenty of unspent summer all around.

Somewhere beyond the trees, the road began. And beyond that—who knows.