I Don't Know How the Story Ends by J.B. Cheaney

film and the panning crank. When Ranger shouted, “ Cut ! ” he closed the shutter and cranked one full turn to create space between takes.
    For the next shot, Sam positioned the tripod right on the pier for a direct view of Sylvie dancing like a little maniac on the edge. At Ranger’s signal, she slipped off—and landed on her bottom in a mere six inches of water. The tide was going out faster than we expected.
    â€œCriminy,” Ranger fumed. “Sam, move the camera down the pier. Sylvie! Go out a little farther and start flailing around.”
    â€œShe can’t swim!” I protested.
    â€œDoesn’t have to. She only has to move out far enough her knees don’t show. Besides, I have a scout badge in lifesaving.”
    Sylvie was already bobbing out to deeper water, so I yelled, “Be careful!” and kept my eyes on her while she thrashed and shrieked. I looked away only long enough to do my own shrieking while the camera was on me. Then Sam turned his lens toward the beach, where Ranger heard our cries and determined in his resolute heart to come to our aid.
    Meanwhile the pitch of Sylvie’s yelling had shifted, and when I looked back to the water, she was farther out than before. “The tide’s caught her!” I screamed. “She’s going out to sea!”
    At least Ranger wasted no more time striking poses. Already divested of his shoes and jacket, he charged the surf like a locomotive and flung himself into the waves. I ran into the water up to my knees and stood there wringing my hands. Even with the sound of the camera grinding in my ears, I was hardly acting.
    Sam just kept on cranking, and soon he got something unexpected: another body in the water, emerging from the left of the lens and paddling toward Sylvie with as much resolution as any lifeguard. It was a golden retriever, long silky ears streaming behind him. The dog reached her first, grabbed her collar with his teeth, and began paddling back toward land. Ranger was thus cheated of the actual rescue, but he lent a hand when the dog’s strength waned and looked just as heroic when he staggered onto the beach with a coughing and sputtering Sylvie in his arms.
    I ran to her while Ranger whooped like a savage. “Did you see that? We’ll leave the dog in. Cut , Sam—you’re wasting film. We’ll shoot Sylvie throwing her arms around him while Matchless and the Youth make eyes at each other, and then—”
    At that moment we were joined by the owners of the dog—two boys, one about Ranger’s age and the other a few years younger. The younger one was shouting, “Good boy, Champ! We didn’t even know where you was until Danny heard all the hollerin’ down here. We’re gonna tell the mayor and get you a medal…”
    While he prattled on, the rest of us became aware that Ranger and the older boy recognized each other—first with surprise, then growing hostility. “I shoulda known,” the boy finally growled. “Half-breed Bell, grinding out his big picture. Now I know why you like the flickers. They give you a chance to look white.”
    â€œHe saved my life!” Sylvie piped up loyally from the nest of towels I had wrapped her in.
    â€œGet lost, Prewitt,” Ranger said, scrubbing the flour from his face with a wet shirttail.
    â€œI’ve got as much right to be here as you. Anyways, since you’re already half stripped-down for a fight, remember I owe you one for pasting that shiner on Tom Pigeon last spring.”
    â€œHe had it coming,” Ranger muttered.
    â€œFor what? For callin’ a spade a spade?”
    â€œIt was three against one! I just got in a lucky punch!”
    â€œYou feel lucky now?” Danny raised his fists and made a practice jab while his little brother shouted encouragement from the side of the noble Champ. Ranger darted forward and made an ill-considered swing that left him open to a