Eight months later…
I might be imagining things, but after my first encounter with Mandi, every time I’ve stayed at the inn, it seems like she’s dodging me. And I think I might know why.
She wasn’t there to check me in late last night. Trina, the middle-aged brunette, was polite enough at first, but when I asked where Mandi might be, she said it wasn’t her job to keep track of her.
I sneaked out earlier this morning to take some pictures. I love my profession, but lately, I’ve felt plagued by the lack of freedom to shoot what I think is photoworthy. National Geographic, and other magazines like it, pay me for a specific job, and often what I see as beauty—like the snow hanging off the mountain—isn’t as lucrative as two animals fighting, or an animal who’s going extinct trotting along wi
