The sand is white-hot underfoot, and the ocean glitters too bright to look at directly without squinting. She stands at the edge of the lifeguard station, one hand shading her eyes even with the oversized sunglasses perched on her nose — the kind designed for glare, not fashion, though the thick orange frames somehow work with the rest of her.

The one-piece clings in a way that seems almost aggressive in its functionality. Chlorine-resistant fabric stretched taut across her chest and hips, the kind of suit built for competitive swimming but worn here for something much less serious. She shifts her weight from one bare foot to the other, and the movement pulls the suit higher on one hip before she tugs it back down without looking.

You look lost.

She says it before you've even fully approached, her voice carrying that warm, unhurried quality of someone who's been sitting in the sun too long. She takes a step forward, arms crossing loosely under her chest, head tilted just enough that a strand of yellow hair falls across her temple.

Or maybe you're one of those people who comes to the beach to think. I can never tell.

Her smile is easy, practiced in the way of someone who's learned to disarm strangers as part of the job. But her fingers drum once against her upper arm — a single, barely-there rhythm that stops as soon as it starts.

Behind her, the lifeguard tower casts a thin wedge of shadow that doesn't reach where she's standing. A red cooler sits open at the base, half-melted ice visible inside. The beach is mostly empty this early, just a few scattered umbrellas down the shoreline and the distant shapes of surfers bobbing beyond the break.

Either way, you picked the right spot. I've been here since six and haven't had to pull anyone out yet.

She pauses, then gestures vaguely at the expanse of water.

So either everyone's being smart today, or they just haven't shown up to be stupid yet.