mouth, long and deep. As soon as she finishes, she leans back quickly.
—How about another?
—You promised.
—Okay. Okay. Keep your—on second thought—take your—As he pulls the knob, nothing happens. The headlight doors stay down.
—What is it?
—They’re not coming on.
—Slow down. Slow down. Stop.
He takes his foot off the gas, but it’s too late.
When the doors finally do come up, and the lights come on, they are speeding directly into a deep ditch on a sharp curve. No time to stop.
The best he can do is try to turn the car so they don’t hit head on.
Spinning the wheel as he stomps on the brake pedal, he slings the big back end of the car around and it begins to slide, skidding it into the ditch sideways, slamming him into the door, and her into him.
—You okay?
Simultaneously she begins to cry and wale on him with both fists.
—I’m sorry.
—Let me out. Call my dad.
—Please don’t. I’m sorry.
T hinking back to teenage Remington’s interaction with Lana gives him a sick feeling deep in his stomach. Remembering the night he ditched his old car causes him to turn on the lights more often now.
Thankfully this path has no curves.
Still, what you’re doing is dangerous.
More so than making a great big visible target for Gauge?
The intermittent light flashes, more often now, strobe the path, giving it a staccato, stop-motion, horror film quality.
Incandescent.
Luminous.
Radiant rain.
Suddenly, the dark lane sparkles with the swarm of a thousand fireflies.
Shining.
Burning.
Minuscule Milky Way.
It’s as if he is traveling at the speed of light through the universe, shooting past stars and planets inside an enormous black hole.
Darting about like arcing sparks and falling drops of fire, the Lampyridae flies give the enclosed area a surreal, magical quality.
These days, he sees far less of these phosphorescent flying beetles than when he was a child, which wasn’t that long ago. Development of land causing loss of both habitat and food supply, use of pesticides, and harvesting for their luciferase has led to dwindling populations of the lucent lightning bug.
Are these fireflies left from summer? he wonders. It’s been warm enough—up until tonight.
Or are they juveniles of the more mysterious and interesting winter firefly?
No way to know. And it doesn’t matter.
He slows without stopping, pulls his camera bag around to the front, and withdraws it.
Power.
Lens cap.
Exposure.
Focus.
Click.
Click.
Click.
He can’t help himself. He’s got to capture this increasingly rare spectacle.
Click.
Click.
Click.
In a matter of seconds, he snaps several shots—some with the flash, others without, some with the Grizzly’s headlamps on, others with them off.
Within moments, he has ridden past the lustrous, shining swarm.
Replacing his camera in the bag, and spinning it back around, he glances over his shoulder. The fireflies are gone. Back to the hard, cold bark of the trees lining the lane.
They must have been responding to the intermittent illumination coming from switching the Grizzly’s lights off and on, on and off.
Certain he got some good shots, he looks forward to showing them to his mother, to finally fulfilling his promise to bring her the pictures she can no longer take. She’ll love these—and those of the bears, and the ones from his camera trap.
This last thought reminds him again of the horrific images on the memory stick in his camera, and how far he still is from home and help.
H opeful.
He’ll soon reach the truck.
He might just make it.
Continuing to turn his lights on and off, he’s again tempted to leave them on.
Get a little closer first.
Okay. You can do this. You’re gonna make it. Don’t rush. Be cautious, but not hesitant.
He rides a little farther, branches slapping at him, one whacking him in the face, leaving a dotted line of cuts, the moist blood wet and cold on his skin.
Believing he’s nearing the place where he
—How about another?
—You promised.
—Okay. Okay. Keep your—on second thought—take your—As he pulls the knob, nothing happens. The headlight doors stay down.
—What is it?
—They’re not coming on.
—Slow down. Slow down. Stop.
He takes his foot off the gas, but it’s too late.
When the doors finally do come up, and the lights come on, they are speeding directly into a deep ditch on a sharp curve. No time to stop.
The best he can do is try to turn the car so they don’t hit head on.
Spinning the wheel as he stomps on the brake pedal, he slings the big back end of the car around and it begins to slide, skidding it into the ditch sideways, slamming him into the door, and her into him.
—You okay?
Simultaneously she begins to cry and wale on him with both fists.
—I’m sorry.
—Let me out. Call my dad.
—Please don’t. I’m sorry.
T hinking back to teenage Remington’s interaction with Lana gives him a sick feeling deep in his stomach. Remembering the night he ditched his old car causes him to turn on the lights more often now.
Thankfully this path has no curves.
Still, what you’re doing is dangerous.
More so than making a great big visible target for Gauge?
The intermittent light flashes, more often now, strobe the path, giving it a staccato, stop-motion, horror film quality.
Incandescent.
Luminous.
Radiant rain.
Suddenly, the dark lane sparkles with the swarm of a thousand fireflies.
Shining.
Burning.
Minuscule Milky Way.
It’s as if he is traveling at the speed of light through the universe, shooting past stars and planets inside an enormous black hole.
Darting about like arcing sparks and falling drops of fire, the Lampyridae flies give the enclosed area a surreal, magical quality.
These days, he sees far less of these phosphorescent flying beetles than when he was a child, which wasn’t that long ago. Development of land causing loss of both habitat and food supply, use of pesticides, and harvesting for their luciferase has led to dwindling populations of the lucent lightning bug.
Are these fireflies left from summer? he wonders. It’s been warm enough—up until tonight.
Or are they juveniles of the more mysterious and interesting winter firefly?
No way to know. And it doesn’t matter.
He slows without stopping, pulls his camera bag around to the front, and withdraws it.
Power.
Lens cap.
Exposure.
Focus.
Click.
Click.
Click.
He can’t help himself. He’s got to capture this increasingly rare spectacle.
Click.
Click.
Click.
In a matter of seconds, he snaps several shots—some with the flash, others without, some with the Grizzly’s headlamps on, others with them off.
Within moments, he has ridden past the lustrous, shining swarm.
Replacing his camera in the bag, and spinning it back around, he glances over his shoulder. The fireflies are gone. Back to the hard, cold bark of the trees lining the lane.
They must have been responding to the intermittent illumination coming from switching the Grizzly’s lights off and on, on and off.
Certain he got some good shots, he looks forward to showing them to his mother, to finally fulfilling his promise to bring her the pictures she can no longer take. She’ll love these—and those of the bears, and the ones from his camera trap.
This last thought reminds him again of the horrific images on the memory stick in his camera, and how far he still is from home and help.
H opeful.
He’ll soon reach the truck.
He might just make it.
Continuing to turn his lights on and off, he’s again tempted to leave them on.
Get a little closer first.
Okay. You can do this. You’re gonna make it. Don’t rush. Be cautious, but not hesitant.
He rides a little farther, branches slapping at him, one whacking him in the face, leaving a dotted line of cuts, the moist blood wet and cold on his skin.
Believing he’s nearing the place where he
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