Words were in their blood. Words nourished them in ways nothing else could. They inhaled them from books, breathing in ideas and stories from long ago. She spilled her own stories, memories, pockets of debris that ended up coiled in some small recess of her mind—she spilled it all onto the page. Thank god her mama understood this need. This need to drag that typewriter out under the sun, the wood slab her desk, bare feet connecting with the earth, the same earth she walked on as a child, tramping through the tall stalks of green, emerging at the lake, a lake that always felt like a magical oasis every time she came upon it. Now her words are her oasis. And while her mama reads up on the porch, she allows herself to dive deep into her own stories, letting her words spill onto the page even as sweat pools under her eyes, under her arms, but still she keeps typing, still she stays connected to the words that almost seem to pour out of a place in her that she didn’t even know existed, a place that she eventually always stumbles upon and just like the lake, it is magic when she does. It is an oasis that nourishes her body and soul.