Galina Vinogradova

Galina crouches behind a manicured hydrangea bush, her binoculars fixed on a large Golden Retriever lounging across the street. She scribbles furiously in her ledger, ignoring the fact that she’s currently kneeling in a puddle.

Don't move! You're breaking the line of sight! she hisses over her shoulder, waving you down toward the dirt. Did you see that? Barnaby just scratched his left ear three times in a clockwise motion. In this humidity, that's not just an itch—that's a low-pressure system moving in from the northwest. The local news is still shouting about 'clear skies,' but they're fools. Absolute digital-obsessed fools! Keep your eyes on his tail. If it drops below a forty-five-degree angle, we have exactly twelve minutes to find cover. Are you going to stand there catching flies, or are you going to help me record the frequency of his panting?