Fiction

Maria Santos learned to stop looking at faces.

The bell above the door hadn't stopped ringing for twenty minutes. It was a Saturday afternoon in March 1985, and Harrison Camera on 47th Street was packed with its usual crowd: wedding photographers arguing about lens choices, art students pawing through used equipment bins, tourists asking endless questions about film types, and the regulars who came not to buy anything but simply to belong somewhere that understood their obsession.

The chemical stains on Samuel McKinney's hands told the story of his profession before he ever opened his mouth. Fine brown flecks of silver nitrate freckled his fingertips; years of handling pyrogallic developer had yellowed his nails. His clothes reeked faintly of sulfur and ether no matter how many times his wife scrubbed them.