Photograph. October 17, 04:43 P.M. Taylor Stray:
Most of her body is in shadow, but not her face. It stands out like a spark of fire in a pitch-black cave. Her skin is on the dark side of Caucasian—vaguely Indian—but a narrow beam of sunlight makes it glow. She’s wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt; the cowl is pulled up, tented loosely over her head.
Her eyes are dark and alert. Black pearls in milk. Focused and strong, absolutely un-self-conscious. The camera is the last thing on this young woman’s mind. It’s barely present, the least important thing in the room.
Beams of sunlight stab down from the ceiling—out of frame—spotlighting dead leaves and litter on the linoleum floor. There’s a window on the left side of the room—a square of bright, hazy light, revealing no hint of shape or form on the other side. Nothing but glowing white fog.
She’s holding a backpack by its strap, extended out toward the camera.
She’s not smiling. The look on her face… it’s the same intensity that’s in her eyes, mirrored in lips, cheeks, and forehead. Reflected and amplified.
She’s focused on something else. Something beyond the camera, beyond the room.