The Follower

Image by Daphne Walsh

She’s late. We’d planned a strenuous hike, but she’s wearing cowboy boots adorned with lace, poms, turquoise, and leather fringe. A floppy sea-foam hat casually dips over her cat-eye sunglasses and a coral linen shirt droops from one shoulder as if it, too, could care less about arrival time or rocky terrain. Never mind her hair; it lounges, the way it always does in her Instagrams—in alternating curves of honey and gold. “Sorry,” Fiona grumbles, fumbling with lip balm. “No time to find hiking shoes.”

She had three months. We all know this because Shonda started the email thread in April. “Sierra hike!” was the subject line.

“We sent you reminders…” I dig one heel into the dirt, hoping someone else will also speak up. But Shonda and Allison shuffle with their packs.  

We’re in our thirties and Fiona was once my best friend—we’ve known each other the longest. I met Shonda in breastfeeding class and Allison when our kids started preschool. We are also mothers, conditioned to live by drop-offs, pick-ups, after-school activities, and countless distractions that hijack our time, which was why Shonda suggested a Day Away. I packed my favorite camera lenses and Allison picked a trail with waterfalls and vistas; this was meant to be a group adventure. But now Fiona frustrates me the way she used to, in high school, because we’ll need to adjust our plans to suit her.

Fiona struggles with a bulky Chanel backpack, its silvery logo flashing sunlight in my eyes and flicking away my enthusiasm.

I had said no to a potential client this morning, but it’s not too late for me to call her back. She’d requested my Destination Package, which involves photographing my clients in their favorite destinations around the bay. I’ve done about a dozen of these, and people always arrive giggly and nervous. But as I direct them, they begin to relax in front of my lens—I think they sense they’re in the hands of a professional—and that’s when the magic happens, when trust and courage (and a beautiful setting) produce pure delight.

Really, my business could’ve used the marketing exposure.

“Do you mind carrying my water bottle?” Fiona asks Shonda. “This bag doesn’t have outside pockets… and it’s pretty full…” Fiona shrugs and displays one of her social media smiles—the one where she bites one side of her lower lip. “Sorry.”

Shonda smiles—“No problem at all, hon.”

“Don’t worry, Fiona,” says Allison, tightening her laces. “We’ll take the lower route instead. It’s flatter. Easier. It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. Fiona’s outfit reminds me of the wispy fashions she promotes in her posts; I suspect that, for her, today’s outing is less about the great outdoors and more about material for her blog. A decade ago—when the newness of motherhood temporarily re-strengthened our friendship—Fiona showed me her first blog post, accompanied by photos taken by her husband: famous photojournalist, Bernard Du Lac. The informal poses, the candid moments, were exquisitely captured, so relatable in their family intimacy. With Bernard hovering in the background—always netting photo opportunities—Fiona quickly developed her platform and attracted followers. Audiences scrolled to see more of New Mom Fiona and her growing Mini—running after a kite, touching noses over steaming mugs of cocoa, laughing and tumbling across fresh bed linens on a sunny Saturday. One year into success and Fiona fully embraced the role of a lifestyle blogger—expanding her portfolio to Twitter, YouTube, Instagram, podcasts—she forged themes around the messy beauty of parenting, adjusted backdrops and décor, drove through the city to discover visually appealing playgrounds or walkways. She hired an assistant. And Bernard willingly trotted behind her, camera on, because Fiona tracked the numbers, she knew what audiences wanted. Fiona is svelte and tanned and her baby blues are crowned by thick lashes—in flowy clothes and vintage accessories she hits the mark with boho-chic; today’s outfit appears meticulously planned.

“Love that blouse,” Shonda says, and Fiona twirls.

Allison glances in my direction, smiles knowingly and shakes her head.

Our group of four falls into line on a thin path. We speak over our shoulders, pausing occasionally for water breaks. I’m at the end of our short procession, trailing behind Fiona, like when we were kids. Our moms have always been best friends, which has always led them to believe that Fiona and I should be best friends. We did, in fact, play and fight like twins all the way through elementary, and we started middle school tethered at the hip, clinging to each other through episodes of chaos, sprouting hormones and surging emotions. It was also in middle school that I noticed Fiona’s flare for making friends—the way she darted from one conversation to the next, one circle of classmates to the next, especially in the hallways or cafeteria—I sometimes found it difficult to keep up. It was Fiona’s voice, however, that preceded us both—booming ahead to announce her arrival, “What’s up, y’all?”—and all heads would turn to see Flowery Fiona, my profile looming somewhere behind. By high school I sensed we were growing apart; our talk was more out of habit than mutual admiration. Still, when Fiona tried out for soccer and band, so did I. When the homecoming committee needed extra hands to fold paper marigolds for the float, Fiona volunteered us both. She made it look easy to collect friends. And boyfriends. Above her bed hung a poster of a diamond ring, nestled in pink velvet. “This is the ring I want, someday, when I marry a really hot guy,” she said to anyone who asked. I was stunned by her confidence—that she knew she was marriage material, and that she was sure he would be handsome. Not only did her future husband turn out to be gorgeous, but Bernard swept Fiona off her feet when he paid a French jeweler to replicate the ring in the poster. Now she twirls this ring with her thumb as we walk. I imagine Bernard spinning round—he sets the camera timer, then leaps into frame for a perfect family photo. 32K Likes. Photos of the whole family get the most hits. Fiona has mentioned this. 

We admire ferns and moss that grow by the trail, and the sight of broken bark on redwood trees shifts our talk to anti-aging creams and muffin tops. Shonda says she’s accepted her post-pregnancy hip-fat like a bonus, “It’s a little shelf I can balance my babies on.” We laugh and Allison describes her intermittent fasting method, the 16:8 Diet; she’s an engineer and prefers to rely on numbers. That’s when Fiona shares the highlights of her dermatologist’s fat-freezing procedure. Shonda and Allison listen intently, asking questions about costs and recovery time, and I hear Fiona repeat the words from her blog entry, promoting the process. I remember because my daughter ran to me with the photo that accompanied the post: Fiona sits at the end of a dock, gazing at the Canadian wilderness—she wears a straw hat and salmon-colored bikini, her face slightly turned toward the camera, lips parted, as if she’s been caught unaware; the roundness of her lips matches the roundness of her backside. “Wow, mom, you can see a lot of her butt,” my eleven-year-old said at the time. My daughter looks up to Fiona. And although she hasn’t said it yet, I’m sure my daughter will one day ask for a bikini like Fiona’s. I don’t look forward to that argument.

Fiona is soft and curvy in every way that I’m knobby and angular. As a teenager, my features felt sharp and rigid, echoes of the insecurity I carried. Sometimes I also felt clumsy or hollow. Shadowing Fiona provided me with a focal point; I figured if I could imitate her smile, her stance, her cadence, perhaps I, too, would appear poised to take on the world. Until the day she cornered me in the bathroom and told me to knock it off. “Stop copying me. Stop trying to be me. Leave me alone.” Thank god there was no one else in the bathroom that day. I was horrified, embarrassed, pissed off. Here was the ever-popular, sunny, Fiona Right—my companion since birth—telling me to disappear. It tops my list of Worst High School Memories. I made excuses not to go to school. I wanted to hide in my room, forever. Our mothers eventually stepped in to repair our relationship, enough for Fiona to apologize and the two of us to make small talk at family barbeques. Fiona moved on, unscathed—all smiles and occasionally shouting hello to me across the cafeteria. But her words settled in me like a deep splinter: painful, slow to dissolve, the sharpest flecks crystalizing.

Our group approaches a fork. To our right, the well-trod path, and to our left, an outcropping of boulders obscuring our view; we’d have to scramble to find out what’s on the other side. I don’t hesitate; I place one foot in a groove and grasp for a ledge.

“Um … hello?” cries Fiona, from somewhere below. “You know I can’t climb that, Annie. We agreed on an easy route.”

“Then wait for me.” I hoist myself higher. “Won’t be long!”

I felt utterly lost after Fiona ditched me that day in high school. I kept my head low, like a stray puppy, walking the halls between classes. During the day—and especially when Fiona acknowledged me with a greeting—I thought she’d return to me, to us, to the friendship I’d cherished. But at night I sobbed into my pillow so my mom wouldn’t hear. Eventually, I joined a hiking group, and took up photography. I started with images of stark, High Sierra landscapes, abandoned buildings in arrested decay, and lone coyotes or bears, anything that mimicked my grief or helped me work through it. It’s how I found my voice.

These days, my laughter can be heard from the next room (my kids tell me to keep it down if friends come over). I also coach lacrosse and softball, and I’ve started my own photography business. Even my stride is steadfast, as I now leap over crevasses, from boulder to boulder. Still, I haven’t developed the kind of confidence it would take to flaunt a bikini like Fiona’s, not when I’m at the local pool, and definitely not in front of 1.2M followers.   

Below the rocks, I hear the faint voices of Shonda and Allison debate iced versus hot tea, and I relish our easy friendships.

I met Shonda and Allison a few weeks after my son was born. It was a Monday, and I was floundering with an infant who wouldn’t latch on. That morning, Shonda and I exchanged sympathetic smiles, registering for the same breastfeeding class, and in the afternoon, Allison and I shook hands at the pre-school office, just before we learned that our five-year-olds broke the swing set together. I felt instant connections with both—we were in the earlier stages of parenthood, no longer baffled by our loss of free time, but still struggling with meal schedules and sleep. I arranged our first playdate, and soon we met regularly, commiserating about nap times and picky eaters and proclaiming Mondays as “walk days” to reclaim our bodies. During one of these walks, we discovered a shared guilty pleasure for celebrity gossip, and that’s when I revealed that I knew Digital Influencer Fiona Right. Fiona isn’t a worldwide celebrity, but she’s well-known in parenting circles, has been quoted in magazines, interviewed on television, and fashion icon (and new mom) Zenda Lily has Liked several of her posts. “Fiona and I grew up together,” I told my new best friends. In hindsight, I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But in that moment, youthful insecurities resurfaced; I believed my connection with Fiona made me more interesting.

I should’ve known Shonda and Allison would be curious about Fiona. “Did she really have an affair with her manny? How can she post from so many places each week? Was her third baby a strategic move—to attract new moms, fresh followers—like the tabloids say? What’s it like to have coffee with Fiona Right?” And so, six years ago I arranged for my new best friends to meet the girl who had once been like a sister to me. Six years ago—to my chagrin—I watched Fiona exchange numbers with Allison and Shonda.

“Why did I do that!” I later complained to my mom. “Fiona has 1.2 million friends. What does she need with mine?”

“I’m glad you two got together,” Mom said dotingly. (She always jumps at the chance for Fiona and me to grow close again. Fiona once considered relocating her family to New York City, Austin or Santa Fe. I’d be thrilled if she did that now. I’d have Berkeley all to myself.)

“She’s a busy gal,” my mom continued. “I wouldn’t worry about her infringing on your social life.”

Boy was Mom wrong. After our coffee date, Fiona friended Shonda and Allison online, began commenting on our posts, and occasionally joined our Monday walks. I smiled through it all until last month when Shonda added Fiona to our Monday Moms thread and Fiona proposed a Moms’ Night Out. “I know the perfect restaurant. I can easily get us a table. Join us, Fiona!” Join us? I gasped. My Mom Group had officially expanded to four.   

It’s nearing lunch when our forested path reveals a lush meadow, dotted with yellows, pinks and reds. At its center sits an old barn the color of silver, its door and window frames gaping with sunshine. “Love it!” Fiona remarks. “Look at that texture.” She brushes her fingers across white specks of paint that remain on the boards.

“It’s idyllic,” says Shonda, capturing scenes with her phone. Allison ambles through the meadow and slowly revolves on her heels to snap a panoramic. Closer to the barn, I watch Fiona open her fat Chanel bag and produce a thin blanket, fruits, cheeses, miniature cutting board, plastic plates, wine bottle and nesting glasses. Her hands move quickly and she gazes from the blanket to the trees that border the field. She adjusts her picnic items until she’s pleased, lowering herself onto the blanket with satisfaction. She knows how to stage an inviting scene worthy of a photo.  

“Well, Annie?” Fiona glances in my direction. “Pull out your camera.”

“Maybe later.” I root through my backpack for my sandwich. It’s humid, and right now I want to peel off my boots and socks and dip into cold water. My mind is still on the hike we’d originally planned.

Fiona sighs, “I get it—the day isn’t going the way you wanted. The least you can do is enjoy this beautiful setting.”

Before I can respond, Shonda pops her head out the barn door, waving at Fiona. “Look in here. It’s gorgeous through the windows.”

Fiona trots inside. From behind the barn wall, it sounds like they’re taking photos. I imagine Fiona is the subject, instructing Shonda, “Hang on. Let’s see what you’ve taken. See the slight halo, left of the frame? Use that. Tap the screen here… hold the phone this way… that’s it.” Later, Fiona will edit one of these photos and decide where it’ll land on her grid. Beside it, a caption: Friday Feels. Or Travel Tuesday. Or My mood in a meadow on a Monday.

Allison tosses a pebble at my feet. “You’re so quiet. Is it Fiona? I’ve seen how you two act sometimes. You’re like siblings, the way you disagree.”  

“Possibly.” If that’s the case, Fiona still seems to think she’s the older one.

The sun disappears and large drops of rain spray dirt on our feet. Faster and faster. Allison and I shriek and giggle, and Shonda and Fiona run to retrieve the food. We scramble into the barn, laughing and dragging the picnic behind us. 

Soon we’re sitting at the corners of the blanket, playing cards. Allison’s lantern casts a warm glow, and with the help of Fiona’s chardonnay, our talk livens into streams of overlapping conversation and easy laughter. I’m dealing the cards for our second round when Fiona folds her face in her hands. Allison and Shonda exchange glances and they place comforting arms around Fiona’s shoulders. I feel like an outsider.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s the divorce,” Allison says. Fiona nods, emitting a muffled sob.

“What?”

“It’s true.” Fiona wipes snot on her sleeve.

Shonda offers a tissue.

“Bernard is leaving me,” weeps Fiona. “I haven’t told my mom yet. So, don’t tell yours.” Her eyes meet mine and I nod. “I’m not as close to my mom as you are with yours, Annie. Mine is so critical sometimes. I hate her judging me.”

“I promise,” I say earnestly.

“I sent you a text, Annie. I wanted to tell you before today. But you didn’t write back.”

I sheepishly grin and lie. “We had a soccer game that day.” Fiona’s text arrived the same morning my youngest jumped off the landing—right after I said Stop that!—and scraped his forehead, so we were running late, which meant we had to use the car, and nearly collided with someone angling for the same parking spot at school, only to learn that my daughter had forgotten her shoes. How can someone forget their shoes? That’s when I read Fiona’s chirpy text, asking me to “join us” for lunch with the Mom Group I had created. The only answer was to delete her message. Now, I’m digging myself deeper because I refuse to divulge any chaos in my life. Not to Fiona, the Motherhood Maven.

“What… happened?” I say again.

“Bernard says he doesn’t feel like himself anymore, wants to find his ‘passion’ again,” she rolls her eyes and pantomimes quotes. “Apparently my work is too ‘commercial.’ I think he wants to be twenty again.” She cries and I hand her one of my own tissues. “How can he complain when I’ve made us so successful? I’ve given us what we never imagined.”

Before he met Fiona, Bernard practically lived out of a suitcase, his career and whereabouts traceable only by his daredevil photography, which appeared regularly in newspapers and magazines. It’s through him that I learned about diving in the cenotes of the Yucatan, the cunning feeding habits of the great white shark, and I was amazed that he risked frostbite by laying in snow all day—through blizzard weather—for snapshots of the elusive snow leopard. Sometimes his subjects were people, victims of natural disasters, but more often he’d champion animals or Mother Nature, leaning out of open helicopters, attached only by a belt, to capture erupting volcanos or the grisly path of a wildfire or the migration of elephants in Africa. I’d never tell Fiona that in college I wrote a paper about the appeal of Bernard’s early photography, which was edgy and at times controversial. My hand trembled when I shook his for the first time.

“Look at what I’ve built!” continues Fiona. “I’m the face and brains of this business, and he’s leaving me?” Her voice falters and squeaks.    

“When did he… is he…moving?”

Fiona shrugs. “He’s already got most of his things in the city. He found an apartment months ago.”

“Months ago?”

Fiona pulls a lock of hair over her shoulder. “I think we were headed in this direction anyway. We’ve barely slept together since Jack was born. We haven’t been the same in years. Sometimes I wonder if he’s seeing someone.” Her eyes dampen. “It’s our kids I worry about most. They have no idea…”

“I’m so sorry.” I place my hand on hers. “Let me know if I can do anything.”

“We’re all here for you,” Allison adds. Shonda nods vigorously.

Fiona blows her nose and clears her throat. “Well, Annie, I was thinking… maybe you could be my photographer?”

I don’t mean for my mouth to hang open—I’m trying to say no—but Fiona stares at me with puffy, pleading eyes.

Allison speaks first. “That’s perfect, Annie! You’ve told me how hard it’s been to figure out social media and visibility for your portraiture business. You can learn from Fiona.”

“And I love your work, Annie,” Shonda adds. “You’d be a shoo-in.”  

I took photos for Fiona once, when Bernard flew home to help his ailing mother. It was exhausting. There’s no other word for it. Lots of waiting: for the stylist, the assistant, input from her content manager, word from affiliates, her opinions on my edits. There was also a lot of chasing: after the kids or the dog or soap bubbles or the sun.

On Day One, our goal had been to find a park, with leaves vibrant enough to announce autumn’s peak. “I’d prefer it if you took the photos from this direction,” Fiona said, once she found a suitable backdrop, with no other people. “I’ll stand here, Jack sits here and… where’s Aubrey?”

Little Aubrey was well on her way to the duck pond, so Fiona attempted to shout in two directions at once—at her nanny, who had just opened a packet of fishy crackers for Jack to sit still, and at Aubrey, who giggled and ran faster every time her mother yelled.

Once the tribe was reunited, we threw leaves—lots of them—to mimic “Fall Family Fun.” Within minutes, the mood was gone; Jack screamed about “a tree” in his eye, Aubrey kept frowning (Creepy Halloween Face was what she called it), and Fiona’s oldest, Elizabeth, smiled only with her lips. Finally, we piled back into our cars and drove until Fiona found a maple, fiery with reds, and we settled on a shot with just Fiona, “reminiscing about holidays past.”

That whole week, I sensed Fiona’s distress over Bernard’s absence. This heightened my desire to calm her by complying with every directive, resulting in a feverish effort to achieve that laidback holiday look. I became a digital net for Fiona’s curated reality. Every evening I collapsed into bed, telling my kids and husband to fend for themselves.

Fiona nudges me back to attention. “Well, Annie?”

“Can’t you hire one of Bernard’s colleagues? You both know so many people.”

“It’s not the same,” Fiona shakes her head. “It’s awkward when you don’t have that… familiarity. With Bernard, I never thought about a fourth wall, but with these other photographers I feel like I’m in a window. They don’t read me as well. I need things to look natural. I need someone that’s practically family. Around you I can relax.” 

Hearing this, I wonder if I could ever relax again, if I worked with—for—Fiona.

“I have to pee,” whispers Shonda. Allison grins and offers to go with her.

I watch as our friends make a dash for it, hands raised against the rain, then ducking under an enormous pine with an umbrella of lower branches.

Fiona reaches into her bag and retrieves a cigarette. I haven’t seen her smoke since the evening our parents celebrated our college graduation, when she asked me to sneak outside for a short break. I was surprised then, and I’m surprised now. Fiona has always been mildly asthmatic, but I assume stress is her bigger concern these days. She leans on her bag and blows perfect smoke circles, lifting and dissolving in the lantern’s glow.

I grab my phone and swipe for the camera. My finger hovers over the shutter button when Fiona bats the phone out of my hands. “What the hell, Annie!”

“What was that?” I shout, scrambling for my phone after it lands with a thud.

“Not when I’m smoking!”

“The scene was beautiful. Candid. You want natural—it looked natural.”

“Not that kind of natural. You know I can’t have a photo like that out there.”    

I’m well aware I shouldn’t have taken her photo while she smoked. But there was something in that moment—the way she glanced at the corner, head tilted, one hand resting on her knee, shadows of smoke rising—the lighting, the position, the cool factor. She looked like someone else, from another era. It would’ve been perfect in black and white—a Noir filter would’ve been too dark, but maybe Mono or Silvertone?—my decision to pull out my phone had everything to do with instinct, not etiquette.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure her, dusting off my phone, “I didn’t capture anything.”

Fiona exhales, “When I’m with you, I want to know that I can be me. I want to know that I can trust you, Annie.” Her eyes rest on mine. “And Shonda and Allison. I’m so glad I have you in my life. Because Bernard was my strength, my pillar…” She sniffles again.

Through the window I see Allison and Shonda sheltering beneath the tree. Above us, the hammering of rain.

After a brief silence, I say, “I’m sorry, Fiona. But I can’t be your photographer.”

“Why not?” she shoots me a hard stare. “After all the times I looked out for you when we were kids?”

“Looked out for me? I was fine,” I respond firmly. “I was shy.”

“Yes. You were. You barely hung out with anyone else. I was everything to you, which was too much pressure.”

“Is that why you ditched me junior year?”

Fiona chuckles, “Seriously? Are you still hanging onto a grudge from high school?”

In my teens, I replayed that lavatory scene more than a thousand times. To the point where I forgave Fiona. It wasn’t until my twenties that I forgave myself, for not speaking up. By then, the lavatory scene had become embedded in memory, an emotional hurdle I’d overcome.  

She flicks ash and continues. “I needed space, Annie. That was all. I didn’t do anything cruel. And look at all the good that’s happened? You became… someone. You found yourself. Think about it…” Her eyes widen like she’s just discovered something fabulous. “Back then we had no idea what was waiting for us. Back then, I could barely use a computer. Look at me now. And look at you, launching a photography business.”

I want to throw wine at her, but my Tiffany Blue nesting glass is empty.  

“Consider the offer, Annie. I’ll pay you well. Better than what you’re making now, I’m sure.”

“No thanks.”

“C’mon,” she says. “You’ve just started out—how much are you really making?”

“How much are you making?” I can’t think of a better comeback. But, really, I am curious.   

Another pause. We sit and stare at the walls. Fiona flicks another tower of ash by the barn window. “Don’t do that,” I say. “This is fire country.”

“It’s raining,” she retorts, eyebrows cocked above a patronizing grin.

When the sun reappears, we hit the trail again. At first, in silence. Then Shonda sings, “Teddy Bears Picnic,” and by the second verse, we all join in. Until Allison laughs and points out that we have no kids with us, so we switch to John Denver’s “Country Roads.” We sing the words we know and hum the parts we don’t; single file, eyes smiling.    

With a half mile left to go, it begins to drizzle. The ground slopes nearer to the parking lot and thin rivulets of water rush past, fanning soil into mud. First Allison slips, then Shonda. Fiona offers a hand, but glides past Allison’s feet. After that it’s my turn, sliding in slow motion toward my friends, my arms outstretched, desperately grasping for a branch. Knees in the air, hair and backs caked in mud, we’re all children again, laughing and struggling to stand on our own, only to fall and start over. 

In the parking lot, we hug and exchange good-byes before ducking into our cars. Fiona waves to me through fogged windows, and I respond with a quick grin. Wipers and headlights on, I drive slowly on the winding roads and look forward to arriving home, a hot shower and stories from the kids.

The next afternoon, I sip tea on the couch, reveling in the quiet. From the street below, the scent of coffee and fresh bread, the occasional sound of horns and bicycle bells. My husband describes our condo near the Gourmet Ghetto as “cramped,” but I think it’s cozy, especially when morning sun drapes the kitchen. We also don’t rely on a car, which is a bonus. He dreams that one day my portraiture business will supplement his income, enough for us to afford a house. The kids wish for a yard. I fantasize that my nature photography will one day grace exhibits. And magazines.

I open my laptop and stare at the inbox; no new inquiries. I schedule a visit to a neighborhood school, hoping they’ll hire me for Picture Day, and a friend in my running group texts that the fire department wants to put together a calendar. “Patience…” I remind myself.      

Just then, my mom texts: I ran into Fiona at Berkeley Bowl! I’m so excited! (My mother is always excited when she texts.) And guess what! She says you might join her team! What a hoot! Our two girls, together again!

“What?!” I hiss at the screen. I imagine the flattery that passed from Fiona’s lips, convincing my mom it would be a great career move. “Well played, Fiona.” I toss my phone onto a cushion.

I flick through images on The Cloud when I see that I did in fact capture a photo of Fiona, smoking by the window of the barn. I still like the artistry of the image. I’m toying with edits in greyscale when my phone chirps again. It’s Fiona: Hey girl! Let’s chat. Coffee? Tuesday?

I whisper at the phone screen as if it’s taking a message—I said, No.

Fiona texts again, as if she’s received the message: You’d be crazy not to! Think of the prestige!

You’re great with a camera, so it’s an easy gig.

Just hang out. Be my shadow. Follow me.

about the author

Rita Szollos is a public historian, writer and photographer. She was born in Sweden, into a refugee family, then moved to America, where she grew up on the east coast. She now resides in the California Bay Area with her husband, daughter, an old mutt, a silly Formosan Mountain Dog and an angry kitty. “The Follower” is her first published short story.

about the artist

Daphne Walsh is a photographer working in Chicago. After abandoning a career as a studio photographer to pursue her interest in street photography, she explores the environment of the city — its inhabitants, architecture, movement and light.