two hundred seventy-three. [In the Backyard. ]
“I don’t understand why you take pictures like these,” says Penny.
The stranger quickly straightens from his crouch in the bushes, looks away from the playground. “What do you mean,” he asks, sounding almost worried. “There’s nothing wrong with them. They’re normal pictures.”
She rolls her eyes. “Pictures of people are boring.”
He relaxes. “What do you take pictures of?”
“Litter, mostly,” she replies. “Empty broken buildings. Mother says they’re trash, though, won’t develop them.”
“You’re an artist, Penny. Tell you what, bring anything you want to me, and we’ll go have it developed together, okay?”
The girl nods, eyes shining.
The stranger quickly straightens from his crouch in the bushes, looks away from the playground. “What do you mean,” he asks, sounding almost worried. “There’s nothing wrong with them. They’re normal pictures.”
She rolls her eyes. “Pictures of people are boring.”
He relaxes. “What do you take pictures of?”
“Litter, mostly,” she replies. “Empty broken buildings. Mother says they’re trash, though, won’t develop them.”
“You’re an artist, Penny. Tell you what, bring anything you want to me, and we’ll go have it developed together, okay?”
The girl nods, eyes shining.