Rhys Eliott, 16, got up bouncing off the bed as though it was a fresh spring day, though it was only 3:30 AM of a chilly night in late September.

He did not care. Sense of time, lack of sleep, whatever, none mattered to him as that one shot, that one photograph he wanted to take.

He went to the oak wardrobe and opened the drawer at the bottom, where lay his E-10 Chronos, a camera he put all his savings in, including the last pension from his Falklands veteran uncle two years ago. He has been thus a subject of either admiration bordering on awe, for being such a dedicated (and so expert) photographer, or of teasing as an anorak, or even, as his friend and classmate Gwin would have it, in a tone less than amused, a "papparazzi."

"Admit it," she once nagged him, "You're only trying to peep into the gym dressing room from here." She was referring to the school rooftop, and in fairness to her a window was indeed in full view from the east wing. Except that Rhys took pictures lying down facing the sky, and his photos were all about clouds, sunsets, and the like. The evidence were all inside three ponderous envelopes, and back home a whole ceiling was patched with a well-coordinated montage of blue sky. In fact, if only the recessed lights on the wall were turned on and none else, it suitably passes for the real thing

As he went out, he checked the brakes of the bike. The road down to the Darby riverfront was well enough steep.

The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;

The tram lines were empty as he sped past Fletcher's Lane. Burton-on-Darby was not a large town by any means, and at this hour, it was quiet as a country hamlet.

And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

He arrived at around four-twenty. The sun would be up in about an hour. The camera was fiendish enough to set up properly without a tripod; getting the right angle for a marvelous shot of the sunrise, the exact moment when night fades and morning spreads, was even more wicked. Perhaps he really needed an hour and a half to set this up, after all.

And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

And a banging noise some distance behind him made things worse.

He turned to survey the road behind him: there was nothing by the road save some benches, a few trees here and there, an old, old vending machine being kicked by some woman...

Oh well, he told himself in exasperation. Telling her off wouldn't take five minutes, he hoped.

"Och!" he hollered to her. The lady paid no heed. She was way too focused on her battle with the vendo. Rhys finally went over, and by then she was crouching low from a pained foot.

He could only sigh. "Och," he repeated. "You're not going to get anything out that way, you know."

Surprised, the lady turned to him, forgetting that her foot was hurting, and gazed at him in subdued wonder, as if it was the first time she saw another living being in months. Rhys was even more amazed. He now had a thorough look at her. She was such a lass; long, flowing hair dark as night, capped by a purple beret of some sort, the kind an old pensioner would have on, but on her it gave her a peculiar air. As for her age... well, she might as well be as young as he is, give or take two years.

"Ah... are you Scottish?" was the first thing she said to him.

"Eh—" he stammered. He replied somewhat mindlessly. "I thought you'd be saying something else."

"Are you?" she curiously insisted.

"Well..." How would he put this? "My great-grand aunt was Scottish, I think. Er, come to think of it, we're closer to Scotland here than is, say, Manchester?"

"Manchester is just two hours from here," she stated. Standing, "Alright, so you have any bright ideas on how to get that tin of kiwi juice out of there?"

He caught himself smiling in disbelief at her. "You like kiwi juice?" he muttered.

"The best," she said smiling sheepishly.

Seriously? He only sighed again. Give it up, Rhys. "You sure you put enough change in there?"

"I did. It's that thing's fault. Sometimes it gives, sometimes no."

"It's a 60's model," he said of the vendo. "Though I doubt even Twiggy would give a fig about this antiquated junk."

"Who's Twiggy?"

He was taken aback. Who would not know Twiggy? Where did this creature come from? "Urrr..." he uttered in frustration.

He decided to finish this quickly and be rid of her. "Just watch!" he said. "One... two...!" he shouted as he hit the machine, hard enough to rattle it, and hard enough to hurt his fist. "Ow..." he said through gritted teeth. But at least something came out. The coveted tin of kiwi juice. He crouched down for a moment as he let the hot pain pass. Then, he took the juice and when he turned to her, she was gone. Just like that.

And the sun was already up.

"A... woman?" said Gwin.

"A girl, I think," he replied as he lay on the floor of the rooftop taking a shot of the sky with his mobile phone. "Maybe a bit older than us. But she doesn't know Twiggy. How could that be?"

"It's your fault for being so retro."

"Everyone should know Twiggy. She's..."

"...a papparazzi's dream," she finished hurling the epithet at him again. "Seriously, poking around for kiwi juice at four in the morning... Do they even sell these things today?" Sigh. "And here you are taking dumb sky pictures whilst talking with his childhood chum. You two go well, you're both dodgy."

"Don't loop me with her. I was just taking a view of the morning sun and she just ruined it for me. How sweet," he finished drily.

"This tastes better," said Gwin putting her socked feet on his face just as he pressed the button, taking a humiliating picture of his face being squashed.

"Hey!" he protested. "Anything but your socks!"

"It's not like I smell, you know! Humph!" She stalked away. "You better not be late for History class. Your mark just got worse because of that test you ditched."

He abruptly got up. "It's that late?"

She held her head and whimpered loudly. "I don't know if you haven't had breakfast or just didn't sleep for having a brain as addled as yours." But he already ran past her. She had just been dismissed in the middle of her harangue. "Rhys, stop this instant!"

He complied. "Eh?"

"Don't forget your gift to your sister," she said soberly. "She'll be waiting for you."

Author's note: Poem excerpt from Meeting at Night, by Robert Browning