The sun makes me squint. In front of the RV is an oil stain that’s shimmering in rainbows. I pull my camera out of its sling and aim it at the spot. The sun is way too bright for a perfect shot, but I play around with the settings and see if I can get the white balance to work. I take a couple practice shots, but they go between bleached-looking and muddy. I’m fiddling with the settings again when Ruth’s reflection appears in the oil puddle. I hurry and click before she can move. One more for the “Sisters” folder.

“Why are you taking pictures of the asphalt?”

I open my mouth to tell her that there was a cool rainbow, that she had shimmering colors across her reflection, that I was just experimenting and practicing and I knew it wasn’t going to be, like, the greatest photo ever or anything. But when I see her raised eyebrow and wrinkled nose, I don’t know what to say, and she rolls her eyes and heads back to the RV.

Eddie walks out of the station with bananas and sunflower seeds. He comes over to where I am and looks at the puddle I’m looking at.

“Oh hey, that reflection’s kind of cool,” he says.

“Yeah? I mean, I was taking pictures, but it’s weird…”

He tears open the corner of his sunflower-seed bag. “If you think it’s cool enough to take pictures of, that’s what matters, right?”

“Ruth thinks I’m weird.” The words blurt out of me. I’m not sure exactly why I wanted to say it, but somehow saying those words out loud to Eddie feels like a relief. Like I’m unloading something I’ve been trying to carry by myself.

Eddie looks at me carefully. “One person’s weird is another person’s Vincent van Gogh, and where would we be without our Vincents?”

For a moment I wonder if he means I’m the Vincent or Ruth is, and then Eddie’s eyes wrinkle into their usual grin and I realize he probably means both. I also realize I’m going to have that “Vincent” song by Don McLean stuck in my head now for the rest of the day. I wonder if Ruth has it on her iPod. I bet she does.

Eddie’s looking up at the sky, his mind on a tangent. “That’s what’s so great about the Impressionists and the Postimpressionists,” he mutters. “They’re painting an experience, not just visual likeness.”

I look up at the sky where Eddie’s looking. I wonder what he’s really seeing, and if photography can paint an experience too.

Eddie sighs, looks back at me, and smiles. “Hey,” he says, “let’s see how many sunflower seeds I can catch in my mouth at once.”