She hung up.
I sat there holding the phone, staring at the dark screen. My reflection looked back at me—unshaven, tired, wearing yesterday's shirt because I'd fallen asleep without changing.
I'd gotten what I wanted.
I had no idea why I wanted it.
The morning unfolded like a thousand mornings I'd spent on assignment. I did my best to be invisible in Thunder Bay—quietly watching.
The discipline felt good. Necessary. I shot the hockey arena from three angles—the peeling paint on the south wall, the hand-lettered sign that said GO STORM in letters faded to the color of old bruises, and the parking lot where someone had scraped a heart into the frost on a windshield. B-roll.
By noon, I'd driven most of Thunder Bay's main streets. The city was smaller than I'd expected and stranger than the research had suggested.
Thunder Bay wasn't quaint. It wasstubborn. Built by people who'd looked at this frozen edge of Lake Superior and decided, against all evidence, that it was a reasonable place to live.
I parked near the waterfront and walked.
The cold was different from than in Chicago. Drier. Cleaner. It didn't seep through your jacket so much as announce itself, immediate and honest. My breath fogged in front of me, and I shot a few frames of the lake—gray water and grayer sky.
And beyond it, always, the Sleeping Giant.
I'd read about it before I came. A peninsula that looked, from certain angles, like a massive figure lying on its back. The Ojibwe called it Nanabijou. The tourist brochures called it Thunder Bay's most iconic landmark.
I raised my camera and framed the shot. The Giant filled the viewfinder, ancient and indifferent to the cold, the clouds, and the small human problems happening in its shadow.
What do you see when you watch me?
Pickle's voice. Last night. The booth.
I lowered the camera.
Emotional access, I'd told Naomi.I don't usually get this.
The truth was uglier and simpler: I didn't usually want this.
I walked until my feet went numb and then found a coffee shop—The Common Thread, the one I'd noticed on my first day. Rainbow flag in the window. Local art on the walls. A community board cluttered with flyers for queer book clubs and craft nights and something called "Stitch & Bitch" that met Tuesdays at seven.
The barista had pink hair and a nose ring and called me "hon" when she handed over my Americano.
"You're the documentary guy," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Word travels fast."
"It's Thunder Bay. Word's the only thing that travels." She grinned. "You here for Rhett's invention thing or Hog's hockey thing?"
"Still figuring it out."
"Makes sense." She wiped down the counter. "The Storm boys come in sometimes. Jake does open mic when he's feeling brave."
"And Pickle?"
The question was out before I could stop it.
An eyebrow rose slightly. "Pickle's a regular. Orders the most complicated drink on the menu, tips like he won the lottery,and once spent forty-five minutes teaching my coworker how to properly stack sugar packets." She paused. "He's a lot, but he's good people."
"Yeah," I said. "I'm getting that."
She looked at me for a beat.
