And that is what happened on Monday afternoon when I lifted the five-by-seven from the print dryer and stepped out of the darkroom with the other pictures worth showing to Lee. I sat down at my desk to study the photograph more closely. Everything was right—light, shutter speed, symmetry.

Wolf Cliff Falls dominated the frame, the backdrop all water and rock. Herb Kowalsky stood slightly to the right. No one else was in the photo. My shot angled upward out of the pool, ending not far above Kowalsky’s head. Such a perspective usually makes a person seem larger than life, able to dominate a scene. But in this photograph the angle only emphasized Kowlasky’s powerlessness, juxtaposed as he was next to the falls that held his daughter.

Nevertheless, you could make out that Kowalsky was staring into the water, and you could see the index finger raised to brush away a tear that had not existed until this moment.

“Sweet Jesus,” Lee said, when I showed him the photograph. “That’s the father?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, man, this is good, Maggie. This is real good.”

Lee went to his door and shouted for Phil.

“Check this out,” Lee said, handing the photograph to Phil. “Maggie’s kicking your ass.”

Phil laid the picture on Lee’s desk as though reading an article.

“Hell of a photo,” he said. “This is one to nominate for awards, Lee.”

“Damn straight,” Lee said, nodding his head for emphasis. “You’re telling me nothing I don’t know. You’d have to be blind not to see this is a great photo.”

He turned to me.

“You shown it to Hemphill yet?”

“No.”

“Well, why don’t you? Maybe it will inspire him to get his article done. He’s got less than a day and I haven’t seen word one.”

“Okay,” I said.

I left Lee and Phil and took the elevator to the second floor.

“Lee thought you might want to see this,” I said, handing Allen the photograph.

He stared at it with the same intensity Phil had.

“That’s a hell of a picture,” he finally said.

“Of course it’s just a photograph,” I said teasingly. “As someone I know once said, ‘There is always something more that lies outside the camera’s framed, mechanical truth.’ ”

Allen grimaced. “Where did you come across that youthful indiscretion?”

“Part of my background check.”

“I got a lot of well-deserved grief about that comment,” Allen said, looking embarrassed. “A photographer friend e-mailed me a bunch of Susan Sontag quotes. Another guy sent me a book of photos taken by Henri Cartier-Bresson.”

“So have we won you over?”

“I don’t know. I’m a lot less sure about most things than I once was.” He handed the photograph back to me. “But I do know this is a damn good photo.”

“It’s yours as much as mine. You set it up.”