Before six in the morning, in the dark that precedes a coastal sunrise, rswfire framed the wall behind him and named what it showed. The wiring bore the marks of the drive — somewhere in Kentucky the solar panels had gone everywhere, the batteries had nearly torn the wiring out of the wall. He said he doesn't trust them, that he'd only run them while he's present, in case of fire. The bandage on his body was still undressed; he said he'd get to it in a minute. The cat was over there. Coffee was already made and he called it gross, the kind that comes from equipment he wants to replace, and there was a bagel coming, which had become a thing for him. The clock read almost six. He was waiting for the sun.
Before any of the rest of it, he addressed whoever was watching directly: get off YouTube, get off the app, go live your life. Go find a park, a forest, an ocean, a lake, a river. Go fish. Go look at the stars. He anticipated the excuses in advance and named them one by one — the kids, the job, the tiredness, the food that has to be cooked for the family — and instructed that they be set aside. Then he returned to the morning as if the transmission had been a routine item on the list, which it was.
There was the earring to account for. Three months and still not healed, and he keeps interfering with it — shaving his head the other day, the shaver caught, and he had been careful, and it was still not good. The top one had stopped hurting to the touch and now both were sore again. He said he loves these things, that they are important to him, and that once they heal he'll take two helix piercings, and that waiting is the cost of not having to sleep on his back for a long time. Then work: freelance profiles going back together this morning, the whole apparatus of getting paid rebuilt from a campsite. He set the terms himself. There are only eight or nine daylight hours on this coast in November and those are spent outside by default. The night hours have to be filled with something, so they get the work.
The wind announced itself before he went looking for it. He noted he'd feel it the second he cleared the trees, that his phone microphone wouldn't hold up against it, that he'd have to start using his mic again since he's apparently still doing YouTube. He remembered the last storm — eighty mile per hour gusts, every tree moving like that. He checked, and the storm was not coming later; it was already there. He looked at the weather, said he needed more clothing, needed a coat, and went out into it.
Outside his campsite the near trees held steady and the tall ones behind them swung. He said cameras don't show depth well, tried the zoom, said he wished the camera could carry what he was seeing, and then let it go. A woman with a dog stood watching him and he declined the encounter — not talking today — and took the path behind the site instead. He killed the music because he was recording. He remembered the trees that came down a few days ago and named that as the category of thing outside his control. At some point he noticed the camera was still zoomed in from earlier and said what he always says about it: he doesn't pay attention to the camera, he isn't fragmenting his experience for anybody. He'll share it. He won't split it. Then, about the trees bending around him: trust the tree wisdom. They've got roots. They're holding hands. We'll be all right.
He interrupted the walk for logistics, because the power always goes in weather like this and hot water has a window. He said the shower house and the electrical hookup are the only two reasons to be on the site at all — that there is no other reason to be here. Then back out, past a dead thing on the ground, toward the lake, past a house, past someone sitting inside watching him through the storm, someone he read as scandalized by the sight of a man out in that weather being dangerous and stupid. He gave the ledger of it plainly: they can watch him die out there, or watch him live until his last moment. And then the directive again, sharpened — get out of the safe little bubbles, that's your choice, mate. I demand you rise. Meet me where I am, because right now you are small. Get up. Go meet that ocean. Have some fun doing it.
The last thing he found was a man standing out in the same wind with a handheld meter, tracking gust speeds. rswfire called him cool, said he wants one of those, said that's what it means to love this. The man had mentioned he could download the data to his computer but didn't know how. rswfire is a programmer. He picked a spot where he could settle, planned to wait until the man was finished with his readings, and go tell him he can help with that. This is how you live, he said. This is how you make friends. You just embrace the moment.