From the short story “Sleeping with Smiley” in Precarious:

I remember the river and the way it looked at dawn: the glassy water and the wisps of fog. I can still smell the sea air and hear the trawlers chugging out past the jetty in the distance. I remember the feel of my oars catching the water in time with Curt's. The muscles don't forget. I can feel the strain even now in my legs and lower back, in my shoulders and in my arms. I hear the rhythm of our seats sliding up and back in Mr. Alt's racing shell.

It was that summer between the end of high school and the start of something else. Curt and I were best friends, and more often than not you could find us sculling on the Rogue at dawn. We had been at it since May, coming out to the river before school nearly every day. The boat was long, narrow, and unforgiving. It dumped us in the river our first time out, and the water felt like ice that had only just melted…

From Fragile:

If he concentrates, he can make out the features of her face that he once recognized, the compressed, rosebud mouth, the broad forehead, the eyebrows slightly raised, as if she always expected to be asked a question. But the skin is a shade of gray he has only seen in skies that threaten rain, and the cheeks have been rouged in a clownish attempt to hide what everyone can plainly see. The hair still clings to a remnant of the blond he remembers, but it has been flattened and shortened by death and by time. The lips are pursed shut, manipulated by the undertakers into a contour that would not dare to suggest a smile. Perhaps he had a premonition of her death, through some undefinable connection, and he has been mourning these past few days not her, but the missing part of him that was lost when he made the decision more than fifty years ago not to see her any longer--mourning the unfulfilled potential, the life he might have lived.

But who's to say he would have been any happier had he chosen to stay with her, to remain at home here in Middlesborough? Perhaps he is merely mourning the fact that he must choose, at every step in life, one place over another, one person over another, and these choices only serve to narrow him, to dwindle him down to a single straight line and, finally, to a solitary, terminating point. These choices have defined his life by constructing a set of infinite impossibilities, all the many things he will never see or have or do.

From Indian Summer:

The bike moves slowly at first, then rapidly picks up speed. The closer she gets to the bottom, the faster she goes. Marcie feels the wind whipping past her face and tugging at her clothes. She loves this feeling of freedom. It feels like flying, she thinks, and she realizes that her hands are no longer grasping the handle bars and her feet aren’t touching the pedals. She can’t feel the bike beneath her—she’s soaring through the air—she is flying! She tentatively stretches out her arms and the wind lifts her up to the level of the treetops. Her bike is below, still speeding down the hill, and she is gliding high above it all. It feels so natural and effortless. She tries moving to the left and to the right by shifting her body and for a few moments she just enjoys the feeling of flying. Then she lowers her arms, which causes her to slowly descend back to her bike. Placing her hands on the handles and her feet on the pedals she continues the rest of the way down the hill on her bike. Just before the speed gets out of control—just before she gets afraid—Marcie puts on the brakes and comes to a stop. Turning to look back up the hill, she thinks, did that really happen? Did I just fly? It was only for a few moments, but she definitely felt herself flying. How could it possibly be real, though? She has dreamed of flying before, but nothing as real as this. It must have been some kind of daydream.

The ride down the hill and the sensation of flying has left her a little breathless and shaky, so she walks her bike the rest of the way over to the bike racks. She pulls up next to Eric as he locks his bike to the rack and slides her bike into the next space. She wants to ask him if he saw her flying, but doesn’t know how to bring it up without sounding weird. Saying, ‘By the way, Eric, did you see me flying down the hill just a minute ago’ is just too strange. He wouldn’t believe her if she told him what happened anyway. She’s not really sure if she believes it herself…

From Summer Sanctuary:

Dinah broke the silence. "Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked. She was combing her fingers through the grass and propellers, watching intently as the blades bounced right back up, twirling the propellers in the air.

I didn't know what to say. I couldn't very well tell her that I watched her dig my sandwich out of the trash yesterday, and I was just dying of curiosity.

"You just seem different-more interesting than most of the people I see around here." I leaned back on my elbows and stretched my feet out in front of me. "Why did you agree to have lunch with me?"

"I was hungry," she said simply, rising to her feet and wiping her hands on the back of her jean shorts. She walked around the maple tree, hugging it with one arm as she walked. Then she turned around and walked the other way, hugging the tree with her other arm. She stopped right in front of me.

I had to look straight up to see her face. "You seem different, too," she admitted. "In a good way." She sat down and relaxed a little, leaning back against the tree. "Can you keep a secret?" she asked.

I hesitated. How many times had my parents talked to me about good secrets and bad secrets? Could I promise to keep a secret without knowing what kind of a secret it was? "I can keep a secret that needs to be kept."

"I mean it, Matthew."

She sat forward, hugging her knees. "If I tell you something, you have to promise not to tell anyone." Just the way she said it I could tell it was a really serious secret.

"I promise," I said, knowing that I would keep Dinah's secret no matter what, and hoping I wouldn't regret it.