Behind the counter was Thompson Ingleby, a kid from my senior photography class. Like me, he had been persona non grata at Bayview High. He was stocky, about five foot six, with green eyes and dirty-blond hair. I’d thought he was cute once, back in ninth grade, but then I’d grown half a foot and lost interest. He’d spent the first years of high school smoking pot at the edge of the soccer field with the other burnouts, but he’d suddenly became more academically focused in twelfth grade and subsequently lost all his friends. His family lived on one of the remote homesteads in the center of the island. Rumors of drugs and guns and sex dungeons swirled around them. We could have been allies, but throwing my lot in with Thompson Ingleby would not have improved my popularity.

“Hey, Low,” he said, as if he were genuinely glad to see me.

Unlike me, Thompson wasn’t broody and resentful, but chipper, happy-go-lucky. He clearly wasn’t right in the head.

“Hey,” I mumbled. “I’m picking up some prints. Under Morrison.”

“Right,” he chirped, pulling open a long drawer near his knees. He extracted a blue envelope and slid it across the counter toward me. “Your photos are awesome.”

“You looked at my photos?” I snapped.

“Umm . . . that’s my job. Cashier and quality control. I make sure the photos print out properly. You’d be surprised how often the printer will screw up. But yours came out great. You could sell them.”

“Who would want pictures of my brother?”

“People like babies,” he said. “They don’t care who they are.” He read the back of the envelope and punched some numbers into the till. “Four sixty-eight, please.

As I dug into my wallet, Thompson said, “Are you on Instagram?”

“No.”

“You should set up a page for your photography. You never know what might happen.”

I plunked a bill onto the counter. “Like what?”

“I don’t know . . . Maybe someone would hire you to photograph their baby?”

“Gross.”

“But what if they lived in New York? Or Paris? They might fly you out there.”

That was more enticing.

“You might get a gallery showing. Or free camera equipment. Or baby swag.”

“Why would I want baby swag?”

“For your brother,” he said, as he made change. “I manage a page for my cousin’s baking business. She’s got over three thousand followers now. She’s getting her brand out there and she’s starting to get a few orders.” He leaned toward me and I saw a few straggly whiskers under his bottom lip, an attempt at a soul patch. “Don’t tell anyone, but her food looks better than it tastes.”

He handed me some coins. “When you get your page up, let me know. I’ll give you a shout out in our stories.”