“Pass me the lens hood!” Jack orders, his voice barely heard over the lobbying crowds.
A political rally.
Thousands marching to Downing Street demanding more cash for the National Health Service.
“Keep an eye out for anything interesting,” he shouts again, “and stay close.”
I scoot into Jack’s side, our awareness and protection of each other evident by the proximity in which we move like armored side-walking crabs. I clench my own hand three times, the effect not nearly as reassuring as when Ella and I use our three-squeeze code.
It’s okay, Oneiroi whispers, we’ve got you. Don’t panic.
Rucksacks secured on our backs, Jack and I forge ahead, our hands free to protect our cameras and our eyes fixed on the marching men and women.
College suddenly seems like a far cry from working life. Work proving nothing like the safe environment of darkrooms and reading and lectures. Just three days in and already I’m starting to feel the burn, the rush. The thrill of being an actual photographer. I feel a wave of nausea—from either excitement or fear.
Excitement, Oneiroi champions.
Fear, the Fouls goad.
Why must you spoil everything?
They sneer.
I settle for excitement, then try on the feeling before deciding to speak the word out loud.
“This is exciting!” I cheer.
Jacks catches my eyes and smiles.
“You’ve got the bug,” he shouts back.
“The bug?”
“It’s infectious,” he says. “In a good way.”
I know that for a great, honest shot we’ll need to move in closer, morph into part of the scene. Our cameras aimed at the lively health workers, activists, and pressure groups, their raised placards demanding we save the nhs. I focus on a man with a tan megaphone—part of the People’s Assembly—click—his leadership addressing the marchers and stating the pressures to come. Click. Click. Click. Another tan megaphone follows his lead and momentum builds, their dual voices strengthening with each repeated protest.
An elbow finds its way to my chest, not intentional but all the same jolting the Body into submission.
“You okay?” Jack shouts.
I nod, twist my shoulder to fit the space where I can see a woman carrying a homemade placard: my 15-year-old daughter killed herself, it reads. save the nhs.
Jack and I sidle up beside her. “Get her story,” he whispers in my ear, “show her your ID.”
I smile to test the waters. The woman notes my camera and nods.
“Pro or anti?” she asks.
“Pro,” I say, showing her my news ID.
Her eyes start to fill.
“The NHS needs our help,” she says. “My daughter killed herself after she was discharged from a psychiatric ward despite our plea that she be kept in hospital. We were told they needed the bed. We said she wasn’t safe to leave.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer, my words feeling weak and insubstantial.
She grips the handle of her sign, her lower lip starting to quiver.
“She was really sick. Hallucinating and everything. Hearing voices through the walls, the TV. We didn’t know what to do. Where else to go for help. We only had the NHS, we couldn’t afford private health care.”
Do something, Runner orders. Help her.
“May I?” I ask, offering my camera. “I can support your cause.”
She agrees, anger and grief lining every angle of her face, loss pulling down like rain on her already slim shoulders. Raising my lens, I freeze momentarily, a slight hesitance to my click, thinking my camera’s intrusion might cause her further distress. Suddenly she raises her sign, a swift gush of strength. A determination in her angry and grieving blue eyes. I feel my chest explode with pride and admiration. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Good shot, I tell myself.
“Thank you,” I say, moving on.
The mother lifts her head, pride and resilience forcing back tears.
“Fix it now! Fix it now! Fix it now!” the crowds chant.
Fix it now! Fix it now! Fix it now! the Flock mimic, their own protest going on inside the Body.
This feels good, Runner shouts, throwing a clenched fist in the air. Let’s do this!
“Get the shot?” Jack shouts, joining the flow of revolt. His own camera aimed at a group of lobbying nurses.
“Yes.”
Adrenaline drenches my entire body, a feeling not dissimilar to when I’d survived my father’s wrath or had escaped his sly fists. A sense of empowerment mixed with relief surges through my chest. My camera now a mighty weapon.
I fill my lungs with air and push my body forward, eyes turned back and fixed on the grieving mother. The dense crowd’s chant almost deafening.
This is no time to start feeling sentimental, Runner says. Do you want me to take over for a while?
No, I say, I’m fine. I’m good.
“Over there!” Jack points and I follow.
A group of nurses holding up a banner made of NHS bedsheets. We scoot up toward them, click, Jack suddenly kneeling to get a wide-angle shot of the nurses’ linked arms. I join him. Chants ringing strong all around.
“This feels great,” I say.
Jack smiles and points at my chest.
“That feeling there,” he says, “it never goes away. Stand for something, and you’ll never fall for shit that don’t matter.”