Page 80 of Everything We Give

I can only think of one thing. The article. I want it unbiased and for the pictures to speak for themselves. I’m about to tell her when her eyes go wider and brighter than the sun. She points west. “Over there.”

On the next ridge is a herd of Galician horses at full gallop. Filtered sunlight highlights their chestnut flanks. Dust raised by their pounding hooves cloud the ground, lending the herd the appearance of running on air. It’s the perfect cover shot. The perfect two-page spread.

Scrambling, I extend the stand’s legs and position my camera. I adjust the settings to stabilize the camera’s vertical movement and look through the lens, bringing the horses into focus. With any luck, the herd will be in sharp focus and the background blurred. I can see them galloping off the pages in the magazine. Taking a deep breath, I press the button on the camera’s remote. The shutter fires in rapid succession as I pan in the direction the herd flies across the hilltop.

“Look at them go.” Reese’s voice is filled with wonder.

My lens follows the herd. “They belong here.”

“I never said they didn’t.”

I glance over at Reese. Her aviators shield her eyes but she’s smiling. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. But she’s transfixed on the horses. They disappear over the rise.

“There they go.”

“I guess I had the impression you didn’t like the horses,” I say as I check the view screen, making sure I got the shots.

She looks at me oddly. “What gave you that idea?”

“You said you didn’t like the Rapa.”

“No, I didn’t. I just didn’t like watching. And I didn’t understand why they had to put so many horses in such a confined space. Just because I get squeamish over a dead foal and have a hard time with animals penned up doesn’t mean I’m going to work my opinion into the feature. I’m here to tell the village’s story.”

I cap my lens and start to pack my gear. “Which is what?”

“The village and the herds need one another.”

I stop what I’m doing and look at her curiously. “What changed your mind?”

“Talking with the villagers. I spent the entire day with them yesterday. Look, um.” She checks the time on her phone. “Do you still write?”

Other than an article here or there to accompany my photos, my writing amounted to nothing more than a picture caption of a few sentences. “Infrequently, why?”

“We’re short on time, but I want your perspective. You’re the only one I know who was on the floor who wasn’t a villager. I want to know what that felt like. And I want to know why you’re enamored of these horses. What’s your connection? Let me try to write the story you envisioned when you submitted your pictures.”

The corner of my mouth pulls up. “You’re insightful.”

“I’m a journalist. I study people. Not much gets past me. Do you think you can have something for me by late Tuesday?”

“Tuesday?” I meet with Lacy on Tuesday, and hope to be on my way in locating my mom.

Reese nods. “I got an e-mail from my editor. The magazine’s moving our article up an issue. She needs my draft by Wednesday.”

I feel my eyes bug. “Wednesday.” I swear under my breath.

“Al didn’t tell you?”

I shake my head. There are more than ten thousand photos on my memory chips. With the shortened deadline that means I have to whittle those down to several thousand and edit my top ones, the images I think they should print, by Thursday, whereas I thought I’d have a week. How am I going to accomplish that when I’m also writing an essay and meeting with Lacy on Tuesday?

Change happens on Tuesday.

“Is that too soon? I might be able to push back my deadline a day or two, but no promises.”

I shake my head and shoulder my pack. “Nope, I’ll manage.” Because I’m determined to have it all. Find my mom and nab theNational Geographiccover. To get that cover, I have to stick to the deadline.

“One more thing,” she adds when I start walking. I turn around. “I have a confession.”

I quirk a brow. She looks at the ground, then off into the distance. She absently pats her leg, then slides her fingers into her back pocket as though she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. “You don’t have to tell me.”

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