@soulbore
Out-of-towners are easy to spot; they come to Oregon underdressed for the weather. It’s a blessing in disguise for Arcadia Bay---outsiders in thin t-shirts translates to customers desperate to buy novelty hoodies from the townsfolk. Whole flocks of tourists rove the beach aimlessly, snapping photos of the Aurora looming overhead. Some of the more macabre visitors also take photos of the deflated whale carcasses. Part of the beach is taped off like a crime scene, marine biologists in neon orange cold weather suits crawling all over the rotting corpses.
Kate prefers not to stare at the morbid tableau, opting instead to march back to her car. The parking lot is no longer eerily vacant since the Aurora’s arrival. Cars with out-of-state license plates and bulky NOAA RVs---mobile laboratories---now permanently occupy the cracked patch of asphalt. This beach used to be a haven for teenagers looking to get away from their hectic lives, now it’s another tourist trap swarming with government officials. It’s a fact that makes ugly embers of resentment spark inside Kate.
She tucks her wings in close, sucks her stomach in to squeeze through the densely packed forest of cars. White feathers brush up against the muddy door of a truck, and the muscles in her wings jerk reflexively at the sensation. “Now I have to clean you,” Kate groans, unenthused about the prospect of spending her precious study time on preening again.
There isn’t any room in the parking lot, and other late arrivals have taken the good spots lined by the road, so Kate’s little blue Audi is parked at the top of the seaside bluff. A thin layer of sand crusted on concrete scrapes against her canvas shoes, and the salty ocean wind tickles the bare skin between her wings. The hike up the hill would be serene if it weren’t for the stray flashes of phone cameras. Her peers at Blackwell have grown accustomed to Kate’s new appearance, and Kate counts that as a blessing, but it’s still not enough. Every tourist wants something from her, be it pictures, feathers as souvenirs, or detailed answers to incredibly invasive questions.
They never ask her if she wants to be left alone.
Over the cliff, the Aurora shifts, its green glow casting a menacing pall over the cloudless sky. Noonday light glints off the rearview mirror of the car, and Kate practically yanks her keys out of her purse to unlock the door. The anxiety is enough to make her hands unsteady, because the keys slip out of her fingers and bounce off of her shoe to skitter underneath her car. Kate’s wings ruffle, and for a brief second the wind lurches her body forward. She catches her herself against the side of her car, and teeth press into her tongue to keep a curse from tumbling out of her mouth. Kate can’t do this alone; she’ll need to ask someone for help. Amidst the rocky terrain are a smattering of tourists, and one in particular catches her eye. Kate swallows her pride and approaches the woman with some hesitance, nervous hands balled up in her sweater sleeves.
“Excuse me, could you do me a favor?” Kate puts on her best smile. “My keys fell under my car. I can’t reach them---part of the problem with these,” she gestures to her wings, a tinge of self-deprecation in her tone, “If you could reach under the car and grab them, that would be a huge help to me.”
