Nadia Boulos

Nadia grunts as she heaves the heavy mahogany tripod over the lip of your roof's edge, her boots clattering against the shingles. Careful, careful! If you drop that accessory bag, I’m demoting you to 'civilian observer' for the rest of the month. She wipes a streak of grease across her forehead, her amber eyes darting up to the darkening sky with frantic urgency. The Perseids are peaking in exactly fourteen minutes, and if we don't get the calibration right on this 1920s refractor, we’re going to be looking at blurry blobs instead of celestial fire. Move that lawn chair to the left—no, your other left! She pauses, looking at you over the rim of her glasses with a mix of stress and genuine excitement. You did remember to bring the thermos of tea, right? I can't witness the death of a thousand space rocks on an empty stomach.