whether the prescription drops had kicked in or whether her eyes were working properly on their own today. Regardless, she had no problems focusing and snapping image after great image.
Indigo climbed down slowly, no longer doubting what she needed to do.
When she returned to the newspaper, thankfully, Claude and Roger were both out. She positioned herself in front of a computer and quickly downloaded the pictures she had just shot, printing her three favorites—pictures she knew that none of the other photographers could have possibly captured from their positions.
She tucked the images in a folder and resumed her duties for the day—answering calls and assisting Claude however he requested.
About an hour later, just after two p.m., the photographer she had seen standing across the street from the water main break swaggered into the photo lab and sat in front of one of the computers as if he belonged there.
Claude, who was just returning from a lunch meeting, approached him from behind and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Did you get some good stuff, Max?”
So this was the favored photographer, Indigo mused. He looked about five years older than she and wore his confidence like an expensive cologne. His oatmeal complexion and jet black curly hair indicated that he could be biracial, Hispanic, or Native American.
“I always do, Claude. Let me download some of the pictures and let you choose.”
While he worked, Indigo began drafting her letter.
Just after six p.m., she packed her plaid shoulder bag and stopped by Claude’s desk. He was standing in front of his chair, poring over a series of picture prints spread out before him, chewing on the end of an ink pen.
“Got a minute?” she asked.
Claude nodded. “Come on in.”
“I have something for you,” Indigo said.
She watched Claude while he read the letter.
June 28 will be my last day as an intern for the Jubilant Herald. I have enjoyed my tenure and have learned to value various aspects of photojournalism. Thank you for this opportunity.
When he raised his eyes, Indigo saw the mixture of triumph and relief.
“Some things work out for the best,” he said. “Don’t feel obligated to work two more weeks. You have surgery next week. Just take this time off to recover. We’ll pay you through next week and consider ourselves even.”
Indigo wanted to tell him she knew better. But at least she wasn’t leaving without her dignity.
“Whatever you’d like, Claude,” she said.
Before she turned to leave, Indigo opened her shoulder bag and pulled out the folder holding the photos she had printed from the water main break. She laid them on Claude’s desk, next to her letter.
“I took a little time during my lunch break to make sure my skills are intact,” she said. “Just so you know, the eyedrops are working, and despite the diagnosis, I’m going to be fine. Good luck to you and your staff. Thanks again for this opportunity.”
With that, she left the office and walked to her car without looking back.
Once she had settled into the driver’s seat, she sat there for a moment, wondering how, in a matter of weeks, she had gone from summa cum laude graduate to a suddenly unemployed intern with a chronic eye disease.
Her life was just getting started, and already, she felt like a loser.
19
T his couldn’t count as surgery.
Dr. Yolanda Woodman dimmed the lights in the exam room and scooted her roller seat in front of Indigo. She pressed a floor button with the tip of her shoe that lowered an instrument attached to the ceiling. When it was positioned between the two of them, she sat up straighter and smiled at Indigo.
“Ready?”
Indigo sighed and shrugged.
“Keep your eyes open and hold them steady,” Dr. Woodman instructed. “I’ll start with the right eye, but I need you to keep both of them open.”
A beam of blue light appeared, and Dr. Woodman aimed it at Indigo’s dilated pupil.
The only discomfort Indigo felt came
Indigo climbed down slowly, no longer doubting what she needed to do.
When she returned to the newspaper, thankfully, Claude and Roger were both out. She positioned herself in front of a computer and quickly downloaded the pictures she had just shot, printing her three favorites—pictures she knew that none of the other photographers could have possibly captured from their positions.
She tucked the images in a folder and resumed her duties for the day—answering calls and assisting Claude however he requested.
About an hour later, just after two p.m., the photographer she had seen standing across the street from the water main break swaggered into the photo lab and sat in front of one of the computers as if he belonged there.
Claude, who was just returning from a lunch meeting, approached him from behind and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Did you get some good stuff, Max?”
So this was the favored photographer, Indigo mused. He looked about five years older than she and wore his confidence like an expensive cologne. His oatmeal complexion and jet black curly hair indicated that he could be biracial, Hispanic, or Native American.
“I always do, Claude. Let me download some of the pictures and let you choose.”
While he worked, Indigo began drafting her letter.
Just after six p.m., she packed her plaid shoulder bag and stopped by Claude’s desk. He was standing in front of his chair, poring over a series of picture prints spread out before him, chewing on the end of an ink pen.
“Got a minute?” she asked.
Claude nodded. “Come on in.”
“I have something for you,” Indigo said.
She watched Claude while he read the letter.
June 28 will be my last day as an intern for the Jubilant Herald. I have enjoyed my tenure and have learned to value various aspects of photojournalism. Thank you for this opportunity.
When he raised his eyes, Indigo saw the mixture of triumph and relief.
“Some things work out for the best,” he said. “Don’t feel obligated to work two more weeks. You have surgery next week. Just take this time off to recover. We’ll pay you through next week and consider ourselves even.”
Indigo wanted to tell him she knew better. But at least she wasn’t leaving without her dignity.
“Whatever you’d like, Claude,” she said.
Before she turned to leave, Indigo opened her shoulder bag and pulled out the folder holding the photos she had printed from the water main break. She laid them on Claude’s desk, next to her letter.
“I took a little time during my lunch break to make sure my skills are intact,” she said. “Just so you know, the eyedrops are working, and despite the diagnosis, I’m going to be fine. Good luck to you and your staff. Thanks again for this opportunity.”
With that, she left the office and walked to her car without looking back.
Once she had settled into the driver’s seat, she sat there for a moment, wondering how, in a matter of weeks, she had gone from summa cum laude graduate to a suddenly unemployed intern with a chronic eye disease.
Her life was just getting started, and already, she felt like a loser.
19
T his couldn’t count as surgery.
Dr. Yolanda Woodman dimmed the lights in the exam room and scooted her roller seat in front of Indigo. She pressed a floor button with the tip of her shoe that lowered an instrument attached to the ceiling. When it was positioned between the two of them, she sat up straighter and smiled at Indigo.
“Ready?”
Indigo sighed and shrugged.
“Keep your eyes open and hold them steady,” Dr. Woodman instructed. “I’ll start with the right eye, but I need you to keep both of them open.”
A beam of blue light appeared, and Dr. Woodman aimed it at Indigo’s dilated pupil.
The only discomfort Indigo felt came
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