Read Unbroken for Free Online Page B

down to the ocean. Dad always used to yell at us for tracking sand into the house, but there’s no keeping it at bay. It would find a way everywhere, the same day we arrived: in the soles of shoes, between the pages of books, trailing up the stairs.
    I sip my coffee slowly, feeling the tug of sad nostalgia for those early, simpler times. We were happy here as kids, before the frayed edges of my parents’ marriage unraveled, one harsh insult at a time. But no, that’s not true—it was unraveling all along, I just couldn’t see it then. Back when I was younger, I didn’t notice the way mom turned to him for affection, like a flower craning for the sun. I didn’t see the contempt in his eyes, as he looked at his family, or hear the slurring cruelty in his voice every night after one too many drinks.
    I often wonder what it cost her, to hide it from us. If she might have survived longer, if she wasn’t using all her strength to act like nothing was wrong.
    I shake off the memories, my gaze drifting to the small garden shed set up on the far side of the property. It’s just a hut, wooden planks and a tarp roof, but I set my textbooks aside and walk across the lawn as if drawn by a magnetic force, my feet bare in the morning dew-damp grass.
    I reach the shed, and raise one hand, slowly pushing the door open. The hinges screech and stick, but it opens. I step inside
    It’s dark: windows covered with thick black drapes to block out all the light. I open the door wider, and blink to adjust to the shadows. Slowly, my eyes start to make out the shapes in the small room. A sink, a long work-bench, plastic washing buckets, a shelf full of chemicals. Everything exactly the way I left it.
    The darkroom.
    My grandpa built it, when he married my grandma. He was the photographer in the family, just a hobbyist, but he loved it enough to make this little darkroom, so my grandma wouldn’t complain about the chemicals and mess. He showed me how to develop my first roll of film here: exposing the print on special paper, then soaking it in the chemical baths, until slowly, the image became clear.
    I practically lived in here, that summer. If I wasn’t out with Emerson, I’d be here, working on my prints. And sometimes, he’d come too—standing behind me, kissing a burning trail down my neck as I pored over the negatives, his hands roving over my body…
    No! I warn myself sternly again. I am definitely not thinking about that.
    I go to the shelves, and pull out an airtight box. Inside, I find canisters of undeveloped film, and my old camera, wrapped in an oilcloth. I lift it out gently. It’s dusty, but undamaged: the large lens, the square glass viewfinder, the settings that twist under my fingertips. It fits in my hand like it belongs there, yet another reminder of everything I left behind in this town that fateful summer.
    Feeling its familiar weight, a sense of rightness settles through me. A calm I haven’t felt in a long while, not for one moment since driving past county lines.
    I grab the bag of lenses hanging from the door, then turn on my heel and stride back to the house. I stop only to pull on my bikini and a pair of denim cut-offs, then I quickly lock up the house and slide into the Camaro, my camera resting in the passenger seat.
    Study and packing can wait. I need a break, and I know just the place to go.
    I drive out of town for about five miles, bumping along a dusty back road. The popular beaches are all back by the Cove: sheltered flat golden sands, and easy access to frozen drinks and ice-cream treats. Out here, the dunes are wild and untamed; waves whipped by the wind, unprotected. I climb out of the car and leave my sneakers in a heap on the sand, feeling the grains between my toes. I take another deep breath, feeling the tension flow out of my tired limbs. This is what I needed: away from everything, just me and the ocean.
    I load a fresh film into the camera and lift it to my eye. It feels odd at first, like