“when was the last time it rained?”

iris screamed over the pelting of the water, hugging argyle’s photo album underneath her jacket. they kept up pace with her, though with much more measured steps. hugging their own jacket — mossy green to her dandelion yellow — to protect that old camera from a single droplet. the hoods weren’t being too helpful. iris felt her face and hair soaked, the rain was coming from too many directions. the canopy of trees redirected it, helpless with the force of the storm.

it had started as a drizzle by the lake. iris sitting at the end of the dock, leafing through the newly revealed photographs. pictures of sparrows, a buzzard (mouse teared by its hooked beak), a buck with kudzus tangled on its antlers. dew on shamrocks, an orange ladybug crawling up a stem, a plate-sized ring of white flowers at the foot of a tree. herself, not too different as she was then. except argyle took this one on the ocean pier, not at the lake. it was the one where they asked her to look away and pretend they hadn’t just asked to take her picture. iris thought the crook of her mouth gave away it was staged. argyle said she looked pretty.

they thought they could make it back to her house before the sky truly opened up. it was always raining in this town, but the past — “like a week ago!” argyle screamed back in the downpour — it had been that washed out sort of sunny. with clouds so white the sky was blinding. the storm caught up to them halfway down the mountain.

now they were trying not to slip, break an ankle, muddy the album, ruin the camera.

“i’m taking an umbrella next time,” iris said, half-laughing. argyle had sunk up to their ankle in a puddle and cursed in english so suddenly the scottish accent slipped out. “you okay?”

her laughing had made them laugh too. “yeah, camera’s still alright.”

they could wash the mud, the camera didn’t have such luxuries.

“my dad is gonna be pissed,” iris said, voice more even now that they were actually side-by-side.

“doc is gonna kill us,” argyle muttered, or more like talked low which counted as muttering with the noise of the rain.

“wet feet means getting sick,” iris said, “sick means no school!”

“i don’t want to stay home.”

“you’d be staying with me, silly.” iris smile, a drop of water sliding down her nose. “we’d have to quarantine. you can’t give brenna a cold.”

argyle laughed their exhaling, surprised laugh. “then that sounds amazing. you got clothes i can borrow, right?”

“i’m sure we fit about the same size. i’m small, you’re small.”

“i’m taller than you.”

“live five centimetres!”

“six! get it right.”

the lights inside the house were on. someone must have seen them because raúl ibarra stepped out onto the back porch and screamed iris! iris! what the hell were you thinking? you’re gonna get sick! after doc had given them the sterner talking to raúl wasn’t biologically made for, after karina laughed about how they were totally getting sick, after fer started another kettle of tea, after changes of clothes and hot showers, lirio sat with them on the floor of the living room and asked: “did you at least take nice pictures of the rain?”

“one,” argyle said. the only one they’d risked before covering the camera.