Free Too Hot to Hold by Stephanie Tyler Page B

family’s farm in Zimbabwe in the dark, only a thin beam of an old flashlight between them, and with the whisper of the tobacco leaves as a soundstage they’d try to scare each other silly.
    Sometimes, they used classic stories from books they’d gotten out of the school library—others were from local traditions, like the tales of walking zombies, thanks to local voodoo legends.
    But those ghosts were always smoke and mirrors, never flesh and blood. They were never real, and Sarah and her sister would end up laughing until their sides hurt and Mom would call them back inside the house.
    Her sister and her parents had been dead for years, since Sarah was sixteen, and she had no idea if the old porch was still standing. Today, she hated ghost stories and she’d been about to leave the circle of people around the fire when the liquor came out and the young doctor who’d been flirting with her had challenged her to a shot contest.
    He was so young and yet she had to remind herself that he was years older than she was. But sixteen and the family porch were another lifetime ago and these days the years faded like the sunsets.
    Now she lowered the man onto his cot and pulled the blanket over him before leaving the tent. She took advantage of the outside shower available by the doctor’s quarters of this French-run refugee camp. As oneA.M. approached, the air was still warm, the water almost more so, but good enough to wash the long day of traveling away. She stepped out of the small enclosure holding a small towel against her body.
    She dressed quickly, skin still slightly damp as she pulled the black tank top on and scrambled into cargoes. She walked back to her car, where she planned to spend the night, mapping out tomorrow’s route for Vince. Going over the pictures she’d taken for him.
    She grabbed her camera from her bag and watched through the backlit viewfinder as she thumbed through the day’s pictures.
    She didn’t remember walking through the frantic refugees who’d gathered for food and shelter and medical attention. Looking back at the photos she’d taken, she vaguely recalled the afternoon spent there while Vince interviewed survivors of the most recent violence in the DRC. She’d walked through so many—as a guide and a photographer—and she didn’t like to think of herself as immune to the heartache that was all too apparent to an outsider.
    But when she photographed the atrocities, it was as if all her pent-up emotion, her anger and shame and wish to help came through the lens.
    She’d captured a few children running, laughing. A mother nursed her infant in some sparse shade and she could almost fool herself that the scene was serene.
    But the reminders of where these had been taken came quickly—the image of a young man missing both legs below the knees, an old man who kept repeating Karibu at the top of his lungs to no one in particular.
    He’d lost the worst thing of all, although some would say it was better to be stripped of your senses if you lived here.
    Lately, her pictures had been getting better—more focused. Tighter.
    These days, photography was all she had to concentrate on and she was grateful for the distraction.
    Vince walked up next to her and she silently handed him the camera. This trip, he’d been her biggest supporter and she’d sold more pictures to his paper than she ever had during a single job.
    She didn’t need the money, but for now work was about her survival, putting one foot in front of the other.
    “Why don’t you work outside of Africa? You’re good—really good,” he asked finally.
    “I like it here.”
    “My paper wants to hire you full time. You just have to say the word. You’d get to take pictures, have health benefits. Security.”
    Right now, her jobs consisted of meeting the American reporters who traveled in country, taking them around, giving them protection and getting them in and out of where they needed to be. They came too few and far