She never looks back at the beach, never seems to notice them, not even if they stand at the water’s edge and call out across the waves. On those days, they’ve learned not to bother with greetings. Some days they see her on the beach, on her way to or from the water, and pause to say hello others, she is in, swimming, when they pass by. They only smile and wave, nodding their white-topped heads in polite recognition at the woman with broad shoulders and striking blue eyes and waist-length tumble of hair, so wind-blown and wild that only its own weight can keep it under control. Their names are Peter and Polly, but she doesn’t know this, nor do they know her name. Children playing in the shallows a young man and his dog sprinting through the surf the elderly couple who lives down the beach, wearing matching Windbreakers, strolling hand in hand. Other days, summer days, there are people here. The beach is empty in all directions, the only sign of life a trio of seagulls wheeling high arcs overhead. She treads lightly, her feet naked and white against the earth, leaving only the barest impressions as she steps over the driftwood remains of a tree and around the jagged cluster of rocks, where the small, pale body of a crab floats idly in a tide pool and its brothers sidestep hastily out of the way.

Sure-footed on the wooden steps, worn smooth by sand and weather. IT IS NOT YET SUNSET when the tall young woman who lives on the cliffside makes her way down to the beach. ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof***

Inland by Kat Rosenfield