The grass around Avery Blessing's face was beginning to itch.
She was acutely aware of every inch of herself and swollen with the heavy heat of early afternoon; she acknowledged the unrelenting rhythm of her own blood as it pushed through her cheeks, her neck, her fingertips, her calves and the tops of her feet.
That was the problem with midsummer -- the inability to escape the surfacing of one's physical existence. Heat, Avery knew, did nothing but amplify.
(...too bad that's all I have. For now. I kind of like having no real idea where this is going.)