A Saturday Fiction in 58

Time, I think, for a Fiction in 58.

She dangles her toes into the water, watching the ripples grow larger, like seismic rings of an earthquake. The sun beats down on her shoulders, hot and lovely.
She hears the cries of hawks in the thermals; she dreams of flight.
He father calls, wonders if she’s tired.
She looks at the wheelchair and sighs, long and heavy.

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