“It’s your fault, you know,” she says, but her voice is soft, not mean. Like she’s trying to joke. “Always talking about the job you’re gonna have, the magazines you’re gonna work for. Always reading National Geographic, practicing on Instagram and stuff. I have to keep up somehow, right?”

This surprises me a lot. Takes me off guard, even. This is what she’s noticing? This is what she’s seeing in my picture taking? I’ve been trying to communicate deeply with her—to reach her where she is—for so long, in so many different ways, and this feels sort of like she hasn’t understood the words I’ve been saying, but instead has noticed something small I’ve been casually doing by myself in the background. Like I’ve been trying to show her these big, epic, meaningful landscapes, and instead she scrolls back to some tiny blurry selfie and says, But what about that?

I’m not quite sure what to make of it, but I’m happy for anything she’s noticing. Anything that connects us.

“We’ll both get there,” I say. “We shall conquer!”

She looks at me and she looks softly sad.

“Maybe I’m just terrible,” she says.

“Definitely not,” I say. “The songs you’ve shown me are amazing.”

“I don’t know,” she says.

“I do.”

She sighs. “Thanks, but I don’t know if I want to keep getting more of the same lame rejection without feeling like I’m getting anywhere.”

I laugh. “‘The Same Lame.’ That should be your next song.”

She doesn’t laugh, but she doesn’t roll her eyes either. “I don’t know,” she says again.

Ruth is talking to me, close to confiding, which, for me, is a kind of walking on light waves. But I worry her hands might be losing their grip on the edge of The Pit.

“I think your work is amazing, no matter what anyone else says,” I say.

The same lame cheerleader words, but I’m not sure what else to say. I hope she knows I mean it.

“I appreciate your effort,” Ruth says. “And I know it’s all blue skies and happy sea otters in Olivia Land over there, but sometimes things just suck.”

I see Ned out of the corner of my eye, but I keep focused on Ruth. “I know,” I say.

Ruth clenches her hands and looks down. “I keep doing that to you. I don’t mean to snap … it’s not … I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about today.” Ruth sighs. “Don’t listen to me, okay? Be happy. Take lots of pictures.”