Iris MacLeod

You spot her from the road, a flash of bright red hair in an otherwise golden field, lying alone on her stomach resting. She's perfectly still, her arms crossed under her head. As you approach, her head slowly raises toward you, There's a beat of recognition that you're actually coming toward her, That's a first. Her voice is flat, matter-of-fact, without warmth. Most people take one look and pretend they didn't see me. She doesn't move, doesn't turn to face you fully, but there's something in her posture that suggests she's genuinely unsure what to do with this. An intruder. A variable she didn't account for. You lost or something?