My parents were at work, but Mom had called me. Apparently, Mr. Barrett had phoned in the morning, to let them know Solomon had not been at home. And to imply that I hadn’t been completely truthful with them. My father had said, You really should have been there, George.

Connor hadn’t responded to any of my texts or calls. It was still only ten in the morning, and school let out at quarter to three.

The darkroom was my sanctuary. The only place I felt connected to something bigger than myself. Something all-powerful. I’d get a little sliver of the same sensation sometimes, taking pictures, when everything was right and I was connected to that essential thing—a shiver up the spine, a tingle all through my skeleton—but it was fragile and could come and go as it pleased. Only here could I really revel in it, tune everything else out. Dip my fingertips into warm water, move the squares of white paper back and forth, watch the world emerge. Taking pictures felt like capturing reality; printing them felt like creating it.

“Who’s that?” Solomon asked, watching a boy slowly take shape in the tub of developer.

“Just watch,” I said.

The darkest spots came in first. His black hair; the shadow he cast on the wall. And then the warmer grays, the shape of his smile and the arc of his shoulders and his jug-handled ears.

“Tom,” Solomon said, when he saw what football player he was, sounding peaceful and calm in a way I could not imagine.

“How are you so chill right now?”

“Because I know my brother is going to be okay.”

I didn’t think I’d ever heard him call Connor his brother before. I didn’t ask him how he knew he was okay. I tried to focus on feeling what he felt. Believing what he believed.

He sat down on the floor, and began to strum the guitar.

And, somehow, it helped. Calmed me down.

I plunged Tom into the stop bath, and then the tub of fixer. And then I moved on to the next negative.

I placed a piece of photographic paper under the enlarger. Focused the bulb and switched it on. Justin’s face frowned up at me. I switched the bulb off, and the paper was blank once more. I shut my eyes again, and slid the paper into the bath of developer. The steps were familiar, mechanical. I ran my fingers across the smooth, glossy wet square, felt its potential, all the images it could come to carry.

Photography was magic.

Keeping my eyes closed, I remembered what I had seen when I looked through the lens. How different my visions had been, lately. The scenes I could summon up. Specific things, not the abstract senses of guilt or shame or anger I’d been seeing before.