Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

that happen for you. I know my limits. But I did fix your laptop. And stop cutting the damn grass. I'd have done it, you know." He pressed a kiss to her forehead.
    The slender arm he felt go around his waist wasn't Connie's.
    "Can you teach me how to use the riding mower, Dad? I'm big enough now."
    ****
    Mercifully, the wedding reception ended. The newly-minted bride hurled her flowers at one of her bridesmaids, the groom dragged off her garter and shot it into the air, and George filmed them running through a shower of birdseed, zeroing in on the 'Just Married' tin cans someone thoughtfully tied to the back of their Honda before the last battery for the video camera died. He and Rissa packed their equipment, and he stowed it all in her trunk. The shrill sound of sirens made him look across the small pond.
    There were fire trucks parked on the grass beyond the lined asphalt parking area, and a cluster of men in heavy turnout gear along the bank of a ravine that split off a section of the park.
    "Thank God that didn't start until the reception was over. I'd never be able to strip that noise off the tape." Rissa slammed her trunk, watching as three ambulances and a fire truck raced down a road.
    "See you back at the studio," he said, running for his truck. He was about to lose the light, and he had no flash.
    George stared at the pink-clad Leica, still on the seat where he'd tossed it. Picking it up, he held the camera to his eye experimentally and played with the focusing ring. The view was brighter than he'd expected. He pulled the camera away from his face and looked at the f-stops printed on the lens. .95 was the lowest. A smile twisted his lips. Damn Oliver, this lens cost about six grand new. He'd better have gotten it second-hand. He set the camera back on the passenger seat, cranking the truck. He drove over the low concrete barrier and pulled across the grass. A lump formed in his throat when he realized what must have happened. People were scattered on the grass surrounding the small station where park visitors got on a miniature train that circled the park. He pointed the Leica at the information sign. The ride had opened for the season only yesterday. With the warm weather, it would have been full of parents bringing their kids out for a day of family fun.
    No matter how he twisted the focusing ring, the image was blurry for long moments. Breathing deeply, George knew this was what'd made him turn away from journalism. Taking pictures of war and disaster was tough. But there would be injured children.
    Another ambulance stopped behind him, blocking his exit. As he waited for it to pull forward, it seemed Sephrim whispered into his ear. "George, how can people know what to get outraged over if they never see anything sad or shocking? If they never see images that made them cry, how can they appreciate being happy?" George put the camera back to his eye and began to snap, becoming familiar with the camera's double-pump winding action.
    Jumping from the truck, he sprinted across the lot toward the staging area for the rescue workers. It wasn't hard to find the perfect angle for his shots. Other photographers were already in place, but he heard their mutters. The sun was setting, and the flashes on their digital cameras wouldn't carry the fifty feet or more into the ravine.
    The train had been full. Small bodies lay motionless on the rocks lining the ravine that led to the creek, a tributary of the river he'd crossed early this morning, same as the one he and Oliver had made love beside the day before. The miniature train lay on its side, the small passenger cars empty and filling with water. The rescue workers carried body after body up the steep hill, and before long, George had a full roll.
    Running to his truck, he hurried down North Church Street to the studio. Rissa was seated at his worktable, looking at the video he'd made earlier in the afternoon. "I swear there's something wrong with my video camera, George. You did great, but these shots just aren't crisp as I'd like. The bride and groom will love this, but--"
    "An image is only as clear as the lens you see it through," he chided. "Mind if I develop a roll of film? It's kind of urgent."
    "No problem," she muttered, turning back to the monitor. "Can you throw the wedding film in with it?"
    When George came out of the film darkroom from splicing the rolls of film together, he poured a cup of coffee and started to pace as he began the wait for the