It's early. The birds are awake and going about their business, and Ellie idly names their calls as she passes. "Chickadee, cardinal, grackle..." It's not warm by normal standards, but after the winter they've had, the locals joke about it being nearly beach weather despite it long being before Memorial Day. But if you're out for a jog, as Ellie is, you can get away with dressing lighter. Gone is the doctor's coat, professional dress, and even her glasses--they were fogging up--replaced with a plain t-shirt, some yoga pants, and calf-height hiking boots that had clearly splashed and sucked through the mud in places.
On her way back, one of the older locals is hauling in his canoe and calls with a wry grin, "Back to jogging, Ellie? Who's the fella?" She returns the remark with a patented death glare and continues on.
A few minutes later, there is the sound of sucking air in sharply through one's teeth. Ellie rests a hand on a nearby tree for support, grimaces, and raises her left foot off the ground slightly. Guess it was time for a rest anyway.