"Since you’re not going anywhere, it seems, you’re welcome to come to my place!" Selena chimed in.
The terracotta leather boots touched down on the dusty ground, kicking up a small cloud of sand. Selena approached us with a smile, absentmindedly tucking a strand of her wavy ash-blonde hair behind her ear as she walked.
* * *
"You live in a trailer?" I stared in surprise at the small, light-gray van.
"I need to travel comfortably to the places I want to be," Selena replied, inviting us inside.
The interior was pure hippie-nomad perfection. Along one wall stood a narrow bed covered with a patchwork quilt stitched from mismatched fabrics. A similar rectangular rug—woven from coiled fabric scraps—lay on the floor. A wall-mounted shelf held a twin-burner gas stove and a tiny kettle.
Beneath the long window (which swung outward to form a makeshift awning) sat a table and a lumpy purple beanbag. Every inch of wall space was plastered with souvenirs and mini-signs bearing city and state names. Under the bed, I spotted a thick stack of letters tied with a black shoelace.
"Wondering what’s in them?" Selena asked, following my gaze.
"I don’t make a habit of snooping," I said, shaking my head.
"Yeah, right," the kid snorted.
"Generally speaking," I amended, remembering the ill-fated cigarette that nearly burned a house down.
"But I’ve always loved wondering what letters hold," Selena mused, pulling the bundle from under the bed. "Sometimes I reread my favorites—to feel closer to the people who wrote them."
"I’d rather just visit someone than endlessly write letters. Or reread them," I scoffed.
Selena plucked a neatly folded sheet from the stack and tapped it with her thumb.
"Sometimes circumstances make it impossible to visit those you want to see," the girl replied sadly, "but a letter—that’s already an action! It’s a connective thread that keeps relationships from fraying."
"Seems like unnecessary effort to me," I disagreed.
"What’s worse in your book: unnecessary effort or complete inaction?" the kid chimed in, addressing Selena.
She twirled the paper in her hand, kissed it, and tucked it back into the stack, carefully tightening the shoelace around them.
"Complete inaction," she finally answered. "When someone does a lot—even if it’s misdirected—you see the effort. It shows they care enough to try, however they can. Even if it’s just a scribbled note about where they are. But in the territory of inaction? Absolutely nothing grows. Just scorched earth and emptiness taking root. Nothing survives in that environment—only indifferent stillness."