Spadina, wrapped in loops waiting for the next car

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, blonde hair pulled back in a neat, freshly washed ponytail, wearing a white leather jacket with purple scarf and purple heels.

Three Day Road, Joseph Boyden (Penguin Canada)

Page 118:

The night is relatively calm and the air is clear. Stars litter the sky above me. I fall into a light and troubled sleep, then jerk awake when I dream I've accidentally nudged my rifle out of position.

In grade 8, she became best friends with a boy whose father owned the carpet store in town. His family had a big house close to the canal, across the street from a cemetery. They spent most of the summer at the farthest edge of the property where no one could see or hear them, pumping up their guns and shooting off the necks of empty vodka bottles left behind by vagrants. She also learned to crack a whip like Indiana Jones and take turns on the riding lawnmower like a racecar driver.

They came running out of the brush, Pow, pow, pow! Oh, you got me! and then saw the line of cars. A row of heads in dark suits looked up. The one on the end raised a finger to his lips. Shh... She lowered her glance, and her gun, and sulked on by, her friend sniggering, his blackened big toe poking a hole in his Converse. She felt a twinge on the trigger, an impulse. At what seemed like the quietest moment on earth, she flinched, perhaps to pay her awkward respects. Passing the open grave, she went and shot her own ankle.