Iris spent the next morning checking some local inventory items for the bookstore. She then had time after lunch for some hours in the fields outside town, sketched some wild grasses and plants, smudged happily using her charcoal pencil, and, without thinking about it, or at least not noticing that she had thought about it, at five o’clock she found her bicycle taking her down the outskirts of town. She thought about winter crops as her legs pumped the pedals and hauled her up the vast winding path. She stopped at the small faded barn. Dismounting, she was suddenly conscious of the fact that her bicycle fit in poorly with the surroundings — new steel, nine-speed with drop handlebars, freshly painted red in this huge yellowed plot of land by this dull, seasoned and squashed barn house. She saw a gradual movement at the far end of the barn, heard a whispery rustle, and saw that Mira was there, distant, seated alone on a dead stump, carving a chunk of wood in her hands with the electric lamp glowing its soft white light nearby, waiting.
Writing month, day seventeen, word count: 16,008