“What was she doing there?”

The dirt path calls and I follow it, knowing of the other-worldly ruins and the colorful graffiti that abounds in phantasmagorical splendor just beyond. But the overgrowth is too much to bear, making me too hidden, too vulnerable. And although I want to go on with every bone in my body, I hear the words that will be said if I am suddenly dead. I know the memory that would be my legacy, and it is this:

“What was she doing there?”

“Why was she alone?”

“What was she wearing?”