During a particularly excellent golden hour, while Evie is attending class at community college and Mom is nowhere to be found, I head out to meet Lucky behind his parents’ boatyard. All of the Karrases’ workers are gone for the day, so it’s deserted and quiet back here. And when I spot Lucky on the main dock, his back is to me, shoulders all lined in gold as he stares out over the shimmering harbor water; my pulse goes a little wild.

In a moment of weakness, I give in to the temptation of spectacularly good light, uncap the lens of the camera around my neck, quickly get Lucky in focus, and photograph him. Only a few pictures—just to get warmed up. He’s wearing shorts. So am I, but I haven’t seen Lucky 2.0 in shorts. Or in anything but leather boots, to be honest. But the black low-tops he’s wearing right now sans socks are showing an awful lot of ankle, and I can see those ankles through the lens … and also that his legs are long and leanly muscled like his arms.

But before I can lower my camera, he turns and catches me.

Crap! Noooooo.

Not good.

I try to play it cool by quickly photographing a couple of other things as I walk over to meet him. The boatyard crane. A rusted chain. Don’t think I’m fooling him, though. Ugh. See? I should never take photos of people; it only gets me in trouble.

“You know … I didn’t realize modeling was part of this job or I would’ve asked for extra,” he says as I approach.

“Just doing some warm-up shots to test the light,” I tell him, seeming relaxed. Sounds good. Maybe he believes me. “Don’t get excited.”

“I don’t like my picture taken.”

“You used to.”

“Well, I don’t anymore, so don’t waste film on me.”

“It’s not film. I brought the digital,” I say, holding it up to show him. “I figure I’ll be taking a lot of motion shots, and besides, I can’t afford film right now, since I spent all my savings on chartering a fancy boat.”

“Sounds like a problem, all right. Just so you know, the boat is definitely not fancy, and we don’t give refunds. So your money is g-o-n-e,” he spells out.

I shrug. “The things we do for art.”

“Is that what this is? For art?” He steps closer, scowling down at me in a dark T-shirt printed with a fierce wolf and anvil design—an advertisement for some local business on Lamplighter Lane. For a moment, my mom’s stupid superstitious mumbo jumbo about that bedeviled street floods my brain. She’d definitely take it as a sign. Warning! Stay away from this guy!