Endangered by Lamar Giles Page B

newer, taller luxury hotels.
    Ocie hasn’t said much since announcing the Hurricane Watch, but her thigh-tapping has morphed into hand-wringing that makes the skin on her palms and knuckles bright red. I catch the flash of nearby lightning from the corner of my eye, and thunder grumbles overhead, a sound like a dozen boulders rolling in to crush us.
    I say, “I don’t think we’ll need to be here for long.”
    â€œWe shouldn’t be here at all,” Ocie says, but quietly, like she is talking to herself.
    I undo my seat belt, twist into the space between us, and slither into the backseat. My camera bag is there. There’s other equipment in the trunk, but I’m losing my nerve the more the crosswinds swipe at my car like a giant cat pawing a ball of yarn.
    â€œOcie, I need you to drive us onto the boardwalk, just like we do at Christmas, when they have all those lights on the beach.”
    She twists in her seat. “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal any time other than Christmas.”
    â€œIt’ll be fine. There aren’t any cops out here.”
    Two lightning bolts crackle in quick succession.
    â€œI wonder why.” She’s already climbing behind the wheel and adjusting the seat to accommodate her short legs. “I should drive us home.”
    I crank up the syrup in my sweet voice. “You won’t, though, because you’re my bestie. I really think the photos I’m going for will win me this contest. I think they’re the only way I’ll win this contest.”
    â€œI don’t understand why this contest is such a big deal. Is it for scholarship money or something?”
    Ocie does these formulas in her head where she calculates the value of difficult tasks relative to the speed and distance they can propel her beyond the Portside city limits after graduation. Scholarship money means bigger, better schools. Possibly out-of-state schools. If that justifies risking life and limb for her, well: “Yes, there’s a couple of thousand dollars of scholarship money in the prize pool.”
    She sighs, still looks skeptical. I sweeten the pot. “Do this, and lattes are on me all weekend.”
    â€œTwo weeks’ worth of lattes, and I’m talking venti. None of that tall crap. If you don’t get your picture in fifteen minutes, it wasn’t meant to be and we’re going home. Deal?”
    â€œDeal.”
    Ocie gets us moving, maneuvering toward a gap next to the Oceanview Inn meant for maintenance vehicles. When she turns on the brick-and-concrete boardwalk, I’m transfixed by the view beyond the steel guardrails and the shore, which is half its normal sandy width thanks to the storm stretching high tide into higher tide.
    It’s almost sunset. What my tribe calls the Golden Hour—the hour after sunrise and before sunset. There’s no studio or digital substitute for the beautiful lighting you get during those very narrow windows at dawn and dusk, a time when the best outdoor photos in the world are shot.
    What’s happening around us isn’t that. Not exactly.
    There is a gilded spear piercing the angry cloud cover twenty miles offshore. A solitary tower of sunlight, flanked by arcing lightning, is the only evidence there is still a star to warm us. Everything else is forced night, and the contrast where the two meet is astonishing.
    This is the shot. “Ocie, stop driving.”
    The car halts. I stretch myself across the seat until my back pressesagainst the door farthest from the ocean. I zoom, trying to crop out visible car parts in-camera, but I’m still getting automotive evidence in my viewfinder. I shoot fast, at least sixty shots. And I know— KNOW —none of them is right.
    Even with the zoom, it all feels closed in. The pictures aren’t in the storm. If I were shooting fire, I wouldn’t be able to feel the heat.
    â€œCan we go now?” Ocie half yells to be heard over