Rosina races through the streets of Prescott, an eternal loner, the only brown girl
in town who doesn't hang out with the other brown girls, as if she's trying to stand out on purpose, her spiky black hair snaking through the air, earbuds
in her ears, listening to those wild women that made music
in towns and cities so close to here but practically a whole generation ago, those brave girls with boots and electric guitars, singing with voices made out of moss and
rocks and
rainstorms.