“So you’re okay with me putting myself at risk as long as you get a scoop out of it?” Frederica asked.
“No,” Karen replied, “but if you’re going to do it anyway…”
She winked and tapped the side of her nose. Frederica rolled her eyes. Karen smiled and glanced at her phone.
“Say, have you—”
One of her classmates—a tall, skinny guy in his mid-twenties with shaggy blond hair and a limp—hurried over carrying a digital camera. Karen turned to face him.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“We still don’t have any pictures of Garcia’s,” he said, scrolling through the camera’s memory.
“Shit,” Karen muttered. “Wasn’t Silvia supposed to take care of that?”
“She’s off with strep throat,” he replied. “What should we do? They’re tearing the place down tonight and I’m busy on layouts. Do you want to just scrap the piece on the fire?”
“I have a better idea,” Karen said. She grabbed the camera and tossed it to Frederica. “Think you can handle it?”
“Absolutely,” Frederica said.
“Then what are you waiting for?” Karen asked.
Frederica gave a thumbs-up and phased through the wall, taking flight in midair. She flew downtown and landed on the sidewalk in front of the burned-out husk that used to be Garcia’s Diner.
The little Art Deco restaurant had been a popular spot for almost a century until it caught fire the other night. Now it was little more than scorched brick and twisted metal. A line of yellow caution tape blocked off the entrance that used to see patrons lined up out the door.
Frederica raised the camera, starting with a few basic ground-level shots. Then she turned invisible and ducked into the restaurant. She photographed the melted booths, the charred lunch counter, the destroyed kitchen. When she was done inside, she floated above the diner to get some aerial shots.