I glanced briefly at Martin "Deluxe" Deluccio and Eli "Robin" Hood, then at a dozen members of the same species, bearded, mustached, goateed, and stubbled. I moved on to the next envelope.

Color prints fel to the table. In most the focus was blurry, the subjects badly framed, as though each was shot quickly and covertly. I sifted through them.

The settings were predictable. Parking lots. Motel pools. Barbecue joints. Yet the amateur quality made these scenes somehow more compel ing, gave them a vitality lacking in the police surveil ance photos.

Going from picture to picture, I noted accidental events captured by tourists, salesmen, passing motorists. Each told the story of a chance encounter, a random intersection of the ordinary and the dark. Kodak moments of fascination and fear. Heart racing, palms sweaty, reaching for the camera before the wife and kids returned from the toilet.

I picked one up and studied it closely. An Esso station. Six men on chopped-down Harleys, twenty yards from the lens yet a universe away. I could feel the shooter's awe, his seduction-repulsion by the aura of the motorcycle outlaw.

For the next hour I worked my way through the stack of envelopes. From Sturgis, South Dakota, to Daytona Beach, Florida, whether shot by police or Joe Citizen, the events and participants were tediously similar. Runs. Campgrounds. Swap meets. Bars. By one o'clock I'd seen enough.

It was time to talk to Kit.

Bracing myself for the conversation, I went to the guest room door and knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked harder.

"Kit?"

"It's after one. I'd like to talk to you."

"Mmmm."

"Are you up?"

"Uhm. Hum."

"Don't go back to sleep."

"Give me five."

"Breakfast or lunch?"

"Yeah."

Taking that as an affirmative for the latter, which was my preference, I made ham and cheese sandwiches and added deli dil s. As I was consolidating Kate's material to make space at the table, I heard the bedroom door open, then activity in the bathroom.

When my nephew appeared I almost lost my resolve. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face the color of cooked oatmeal. His hair was doing Jim Carrey.

"Mornin', Aunt T."

When he raised both hands and rubbed them up and down over his face, the border of a tattoo peeked from the hem of his T-shirt sleeve.

"It's afternoon."

"Sorry I got in kind of late."

"Yes. Ham sandwich?"

"Sure. Got any Coke?" he asked in a thick voice.

"Diet."

"That's cool."

I got two sodas and joined him at the table. He was regarding the sandwich as one might a squashed cockroach.

"You'l feel better if you eat," I encouraged.

"I just need to wake up a little. I'm fine."

He looked as fine as a smal pox victim. Up close I could see tiny veins threading through the whites of his eyes, and smel the smoke that clung to his hair.

"This is me, Kit. I've been there."