“No. Some of them are digital.” I wipe nervous palm sweat on my jeans and flip pages to show him which ones. “Digital is easier, but the best cameras cost thousands. Film has more character, and I like the control of developing it. I like knowing I did it from beginning to end. No auto settings. No fake filters. My eye, my vision, my hands … I guess that sounds arrogant or artsy, or whatever, I don’t know.”

I’m a little self-conscious now.

But he just nods. “Respect. Absolutely understand that. Doing something with your own hands is satisfying. It’s a skill. And at the rate this world’s going, one day we’re going to wake up to find our electrical grid down and all our technology’s been hacked. What are we going to do when we can’t just ask a computer what the answer is? You know who’ll survive? The people who can think, and the people with skills. I’m not a great thinker, but I intend on surviving.”

That’s weird. When we were kids, he was super smart. “Bleak and dark. Very on-brand for you,” I say with a smile. “But I doubt photography will be a much-needed skill in the coming apocalypse. No one who’s struggling will give a damn about what I can do.”

“We need art to remind us that the struggle is worth something. That will never change.”

“Sure you’re not a thinker?”

“No one in this town would accuse me of being a brain,” he says, a little humor behind his eyes as he flips back through my portfolio. “I’m surprised how funny some of your photos are. And sad.” He points to a picture I took of a yard sale sign in Pennsylvania: THREE DAYS BEFORE WE’RE HOMELESS. PLEASE BUY SOMETHING. “That’s heartbreaking.”

“Yeah,” I say, scratching my arm. “Mom bought a bunch of stuff from that woman just because—how could you not? No one plans to be evicted. That’s not part of the dream.”

“No,” he says soberly. “A lot of stuff in life isn’t. They don’t tell you that part, do they?”

I shake my head.

“You should shoot people next to the signs,” he says. “That would be interesting.”

“I hate shooting people. People are complicated. The lighting … the baggage.” I laugh a little, but I’m sort of serious, too. “Maybe my father could give me more experience with portrait photography.”

He hands me my portfolio. “Definitely see why you’d want to apprentice with him, for lots of reasons. He’s become a big deal over the last few years, yeah? But …”

“But what?”

“I’ve read stuff about him online. My opinion? He sounds a little bit like an asshole.”

“Oh, he is,” I say, smiling.

“But he’s the king, yeah? Guess that’s his prerogative.”

“Right,” I say, and then more firmly, “Right.”