Page 8 of Breaking Through

Later, after Maria left and Grandpa was asleep in his chair, I sat at the kitchen table with my camera. I would start a new film cartridge in the morning and needed to get it loaded. Through the window, stars began to appear in the deepening blue sky, and Gran's wind chimes sang softly in the evening breeze.

I touched the Polaroid photo one last time before tucking it away. Wade Forrester. His name sounded like something out of a story. It had a rough edge that hid a deeper, darker side of his personality.

The soup bubbled softly on the stove, and a clock ticked away seconds somewhere in the house. The oxygen machine added its steady rhythm, a reminder of all I stood to lose. I had responsibilities in Blue Harbor—my grandfather, my job, and the new life I was still building. I couldn't afford to get lost in daydreams about mysterious swimmers with sad eyes.

Still, as I prepared my camera for the next morning's shoot, I couldn't help hoping I'd see him again. After all, Parker always said Blue Harbor had a way of bringing people together when they needed each other most.

The question was, who needed it more—Wade Forrester or me? And what would Gran say about the strange magic of finding something you weren't looking for right at that crucial moment?

Above me, the wind chimes answered with their crystal song, and for a moment, I could have sworn I heard her laugh.

Chapter four

Wade

The ranger station's coffee maker sputtered and wheezed like it was on its last legs. I'd been saying that for three years, but somehow, the ancient thing kept producing a liquid that was almost, but not quite, coffee. The brew matched the station itself—functional but rather worn around the edges like the maps curling on the walls and the scarred wooden counter where we logged our daily reports.

I reached for my usual mug, the one with the crack running through the park service logo, and tried to focus on the mundane—anything to keep my mind off green eyes and vintage cameras.

"There he is!" Tom's booming voice shattered my careful silence. He was one of our senior rangers, with sun-weathered skin and perpetually windblown gray hair. "Thought you might skip the morning briefing, what with that storm rolling in."

"When have I ever skipped a briefing?" The words came out more defensive than I intended.

"Fair point." Tom raised his hands in mock surrender. "Though Sarah from Little Blue Bean said—"

"Don't." I poured my coffee more forcefully than necessary, liquid splashing over the rim. "Whatever Sarah said, just... don't."

"Alright, alright." Tom's eyes shone, reflecting the fluorescent light above us. "But you might want to know she's got a fresh batch of those cranberry scones you pretend not to like."

Maya burst through the door, bringing with her the sharp scent of approaching rain. Our youngest ranger had leaves in her dark curls and mud on her boots. "You guys need to see this radar. Hurricane Olivia's remnants are picking up speed again and moving faster than predicted."

We gathered around the weather station's monitors, where angry red blooms spread across the screen. Maya pulled up a second display showing the system's track from the Gulf Coast. "Look at this—made landfall near New Orleans as a Category Three, spent two days drifting up through Tennessee, and now it's tapping into our unseasonably warm lake water."

Her finger traced the storm's path. "The National Weather Service is saying the remnant low is actually strengthening. They're predicting fifteen-foot waves by tomorrow afternoon."

"Lake Michigan in September isn't supposed to still be seventy-five degrees." Tom studied the surface temperature readings. "No wonder this thing's getting a second wind."

I leaned closer to the screen, noting the tight pressure gradients. Some of the wind projections topped sixty miles per hour—not hurricane force anymore, but strong enough to cause severe damage, especially with the ground still damp from a wet summer.

"Look at the wind patterns." I traced the spiral formation with my finger, memories surfacing unbidden. We'd had similar conditions the night of the Chicago fire when the wind had turned the warehouse into an inferno faster than anyone could have predicted. When—

"Wade?" Maya's voice pulled me back. "What do you think about the north trail?"

I forced myself to focus on the present. I turned my attention to a map spread across our briefing table. "Close it. That ridge gets dangerous in high winds, and the soil's already saturated from last week's rain."

"I'll handle it." Tom started to reach for his jacket.

"No." I drained my coffee, grateful for something concrete to do. "I need to check the storm shelter anyway. I'll close the trail on my way."

Maya frowned at the radar. "The old shelter by Miller's Point? Think we'll need it?"

"Better safe than sorry." I grabbed my gear, hyperaware of how my shirt rubbed against my scarred skin. "Have maintenance check the generator. If we lose power—"

"Already on it, Boss." Calling me Boss was Maya's gentle joke. I had seniority but had turned down the official supervisor position three times. "Oh, and the message board at the visitor center needs updating. Some blogger wants to do a photo series—"

My hand froze on the doorknob. "I'll deal with that later."

Outside, a stiff breeze whipped through the pines. The air tasted like tin, sharp and metallic. My boots crunched on the gravel as I made my way to my truck, thoughts straying back to the morning's swim and the way my peace had shattered with a camera click.

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