Because I wanted focus. Clarity. Perfect precision. Whatever was written on their faces, I wanted to capture it.

With sadness—and with relief—I noticed that only one of the thirty team members was missing. Connor.

For the best, really. He wouldn’t want to see me after the way we left things. After he told me he didn’t want to be my Friend with Benefits anymore. And after he spilled the truth about the whole football team’s conspiracy of vandalism and hate crimes.

I took shots of the whole group of them, chatting nervously, standing awkwardly.

Watching Sheffield interact with his teammates, the way they deferred to him, the Induction Ceremonies made perfect sense. And while now wasn’t the moment to bring any of it up, confront any of them about what they’d done, my eyes would be open for it when I looked through the lens.

“All right, assholes,” Sheffield called. “Ash is ready to get started.”

“Thank you, Winthrop,” I said, pleased to see him wince at the sound of the first name he hated so much. Other boys giggled. “You first, Justin.”

For the portraits, I had picked out a stretch of wall where the paint was perfectly clear and even. No graffiti, no cracking or chipping or bullet holes. A plain white background for each boy.

Justin stood there, and gave me the grin you give to the photographer for school pictures. Broad and dumb and childish. I took a picture, just to set him at ease.

“No smile,” I said.

“Yeah, Justin,” somebody yelled. Six different conversations were going on behind me. They were uncomfortable, bored. Getting rowdy.

“Tell them to be quiet,” I told Sheffield. And, after a second, he did. And the feeling of power I got from ordering him around—ordering all of them around—was like electricity all through me.

“You’re still smiling,” I told Justin. “Give me nothing.”

He gave it. The swirling ink blots behind him were calm, modest.

I felt the tiniest beginning of a tingle up my spine, and then I reached for it. Grabbed hold. Focused on it. Felt it swell. Watched the shapes change, clarify.

“Good,” I said, after taking twenty different shots of Justin. “You can go, now.”

I was on my third football player when I heard a car pull into the parking lot.

“Connor!” someone called.

“Hey,” he said, and I shivered at the sound of his voice. Connor got into line and if he looked in my direction, I didn’t see, didn’t look back.

“You’re up, Will,” I said.

The shiver in my spine was getting stronger all the time. I could feel it, an energy pulsing through my eyes and into my fingertips.