ONE
EMMA
Lining up my shot in the viewfinder, I hold my breath and curl my finger onto the button.
The aperture clicks, and I pull the camera back to check my photo in the display. The picture fills the screen, and I groan.
“Seriously?”
It sucks. Again.
Based on the quality of photos I’ve been taking, you’d think this was my first time using a camera. Instead, my work has appeared inVogueandVanity Fair, not to mention dozens of websites that cater to the world of high fashion.
But that’s not why I’m here. A photographer doesn’t come to Alaska looking to take pictures of clothes. Not unless they’re working with an outerwear company on a new line of puffer coats or camo gear.
I came to Alaska to capture something real with my lens. So far, the only thing real about my pictures here are that they’re really shitty.
I blow out a frustrated breath and lower the camera, letting it hang against my chest. The wilderness stretches out around me in every direction—towering evergreens, snow-dusted ground, soft pale sunlight filtering between branches—but none of it looks the way it’s supposed to. Not through my lens, not in my head, not in the pit of my stomach that’s been tight since the moment I stepped off the plane.
This was supposed to be my moment. My big break. My pivot from fashion darling toreal artist.
Except the work looks flat. Empty. More like I’m trying too hard to make magic instead of letting it happen.
My agent’s voice practically echoes in my ear:This series needs to hit, Emma. This is the one that decides what your career becomes.
No pressure or anything.
I adjust the strap on my shoulder and scan the clearing. The light is shifting fast—faster than I can keep up with, honestly. I’m used to timing shots around assistants holding reflectors and stylists adjusting hemlines. Out here, the sun doesn’t care if I’m ready. It just moves.
A glint of brilliant gold flashes through the branches ahead, and my heart jumps.That.That’s the kind of light I’ve been waiting for.
I edge toward it, weaving between tree trunks, stepping over roots. The gleam flickers higher—way higher than I want it to—but the angle is perfect. If I could get a little elevation…
My gaze lands on a low, sturdy branch.
“Don’t even think about it,” I mutter to myself.
I think about it anyway.
The tree isn’t that tall. I’ve climbed worse for a good shot. And the light is disappearing by the second. So before I can talk myself out of it—or remember that I’m deeply, embarrassinglyafraid of heights—I sling the camera securely around my neck and grasp the lowest branch.
The bark bites into my palms, sap sticking to my fingers, but I haul myself up. Then another branch. And another. My boots scrape for purchase, my breath goes thin, and my pulse hammers in my throat.
Totally fine. Totally normal. Definitely not a stupid idea at all.
When I finally reach a wide limb a few feet up, I settle onto it, bracing myself with one hand while lifting the camera with the other.
The light pours in exactly the way I hoped—soft, golden, ethereal.
Click. Click. Click.
I check the screen.
And groan again.
It still sucks. Worse, actually. Somehow the branch decided now was the perfect time to wobble, and the composition looks like Bigfoot took a selfie.
“Perfect,” I mutter, shifting my weight to adjust my balance.
