They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

You can tell someone’s life story in a thousand words. But you can show it with a thousand pictures, like doorways back through time. You can see how they smiled and laughed. Watch as the lines of life etch over their skin. A picture can introduce you to a person better than a million words.

I love pictures.

I got my first camera from my dad. The first photo I ever took was of him in the living room with my mom. It’s up on my wall in a frame he made special.

I wasn’t good at first. But I had plenty of time to practice. Most kids don’t want to hang out with someone who barely talks about anything but photography.

If a picture’s worth a thousand words, then people would rather sell than buy.

I won my first contest when I was eleven. It wasn’t anything big, just a feature in the local paper. Only old people asked me if I was ‘that photographer from the paper’. It was nice, but it didn’t really feel like an accomplishment. I still walked home alone after school.

I’m more alone now than ever.

The bell rings for the end of the day. Miss Angela—we’re supposed to call her Miss Wright but she likes Miss Angela better—hands out homework. She squeezes my hand when I take mine, her eyes empathetic.

Miss Angela’s eyes are beautiful. A lot of people don’t like brown eyes, but I think they’re great. Brown is the color of earth, the color of bark, the color of smooth river rocks. I like Miss Angela’s eyes because they’re easy to understand.

I mumble a farewell—”Have a nice weekend.” That’s what adults always say to each other.

Miss Angela smiles and I try to smile back. Then I leave and go to my locker. I stack my books in neatly. Side by side, from first period to last. Maybe it’s dumb but it gives me a little satisfaction to see them organized.

I take out my camera after everything’s back where it belongs, lift the strap over my shoulder, and then shut my locker. I make sure to lock it tight.

I leave the building. September’s almost over and all the trees are turning red. I stop on the steps to take a picture. My dad will like to see it when it develops.

While I adjust the lens, a pair of kids from my class walks by. Their voices brush my ears, faint as the autumn breeze.

“That girl is so strange.”

“Yeah, and she’s so cold. I heard. . .”

I take the photo.

“Hey, Theo!”

Footsteps approach. I lower my camera, turning to see who’s called me. I don’t exactly have a lot of friends and the people who do talk to me don’t call me Theo often.

It’s another classmate. His name is Dean Fischer, but people just call him Fischer. He’s a lot taller than me and his skin is a nice warm shade of sun-soaked. He has blue eyes and his hair is a super-messy length of curly, inky locks.

We sat together at lunch once. He asked about my camera and I rambled. Since then he hasn’t hung around much.

“Hey, Fischer.”

“Heading home?” He stops beside me. He’s got his backpack slung over his shoulder. It’s black with pins all over.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll walk with you.” He grins. “We live on the same street.”

“We do?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen you out on your porch making collages and stuff.”

“Oh.”

This is the part where most people excuse themselves or stop talking. But Fischer doesn’t.

“You got a new camera, huh? That looks like a fancy lens. I bet it takes awesome pics.”

“What? Oh. . .Yeah, it’s new. Kind of.” It was my dad’s so it’s not brand-new. “It’s good, but it’s not professional-grade or anything. And I only have a couple lenses.”

“That’s fine. You can always get more, right? For birthdays and stuff.”

“I guess so.”

He smiles again. There’s a deep dimple in his left cheek, but the one in his right is smaller. The hand holding his bag is covered in doodles.

“You’re an artist?”

“You’re psychic. Yeah, I’m into art. Mostly comics. But I’m not great or anything. No Picasso here.”

I don’t know how to answer that, but Fischer fills the silence.

“So, hey, you got any plans this weekend?”

I look down. The tips of my shoes are scuffed. Cracks web the sidewalk and a patch of yellow flowers grows from one.

“Sort of. I wanna walk around and take some pictures.”

“Cool.”

“What are you doing this weekend?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably get a milkshake at Annie’s and draw for a while. Or read. I dunno.”

Things get quiet for a while. We’re almost on our street when Fischer says, “I like your haircut.”

I look up, half-sure he’s kidding. But his eyes skip away from mine and his face is pink.

“I mean, it fits you. Your barber did a good job.”

I just blink for a second. I’ve never gotten compliments from people my age. “Oh. . .Um, thank you.” One of my hands reaches to the shorn strands. “I’m kinda still getting used to it. My mom thinks it’s good too but I think it makes me look like I’m twelve or something.”

He grins again. “No, it’s really good. Brings out your jaw.”

The hand drops to my neck. Now I’m blushing, looking away to hide it.

“Well, I gotta split here,” Fischer says, and I turn back to him. He waves. “Who knows, maybe I’ll see you around? See you on Monday, anyway.”

I wave back, and he jogs up the path to his house. It’s the same as all the houses in our neighborhood but painted teal with ocean-themed decorations everywhere and a bunch of overgrown flowerbeds. A big fluffy dog trots down to greet Fischer, and he drops his bag to pet it.

I take a picture of this for my dad too.

It’s rainy on Saturday. Mom makes hot chocolate in a thermos and packs a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup in a lunchbox. I told her I could do it myself, but she just said “Boys your age need a little extra motherly love.”

She puts them in a bag and hands it to me at the door, once I’ve got my shoes and umbrella.

“Your raincoat’s in here, and a jacket in case it gets windy,” she says. “And something from me, to make up.”

“Mom, I said it’s fine. Really.”

She hugs me. I’m pretty short but my mom’s even shorter. Her hair smells like cinnamon and coffee.

“You only turn sixteen once. You should’ve been able to celebrate.”

“I didn’t want to celebrate anyway. It’s fine.”

She pulls back and takes my shoulders with a sigh. Creases line her brow and the corners of her mouth. “Oh, Thea, hon—”

“It’s Theo, Mom.” My voice cracks coming out and I want to hit myself.

“Theo. I’m sorry.” She rubs my arms. “Just. . .take care of yourself, okay? Have fun.”

I know I won’t but I don’t want to make her sad. “I will.”

She gives my shoulders a squeeze before letting go. I open my umbrella going down the steps. It doesn’t have any patterns, just clear plastic. I like that kind ‘cause you can see the raindrops.

I love rainy days. I stop to take pictures of everything. My dad always says if you look close enough you might find Wonderland.

I haven’t found it yet, but I bet he has.

I’ve lost track of time when I stop at Annie’s for lunch. It’s nice here because there’s seats that stay dry even when it rains. Plus the ladies who work here are kind.

The cheese in my sandwich is still gooey, so I guess it hasn’t been that long. The wind is cold but that just makes lunch even better. Half of it’s gone before I know it.

“Theo?”

I sit up, turning toward the voice. It’s Fischer, a paper cup and bag in one hand, sketchbook tucked under his arm. There’s a pencil stuffed behind his ear with an eraser wedged next to it. Some of his fingers still have graphite dust on them.

He grins. His always unfold easy, as natural as breathing. I wish I could do that. Maybe if I smiled more I wouldn’t be so—well, me.

“Any good pictures today?” he asks, plopping into the booth across. The pencil and eraser fall and he scrambles to catch them.

“Oh. I dunno, they aren’t developed yet.”

“You use film?” He puts his things down and goes on, “That’s gotta be tough, not knowing if the picture’s good until it’s too late to take another.”

I shrug and keep eating. I could talk his ear off in response to that. It’s better if I just shut up.

But he waits, so I swallow and say, “They’d come out prettier if I had more filters.”

“Filters? Is that like those little doohickeys you screw on the end?” He makes a circle with his thumb and finger.

I wipe my hands and lift my camera. “Yeah. This one’s a polarizing filter.” I unscrew it and show him. “It’s nice when you’re taking photos outside ‘cause it cuts out haze and bright light.”

I catch myself before I start running my mouth, but it’s tough. Fischer seems so interested in everything that I keep having to remind myself he’s probably not really.

“Cool,” he says. Then blinks. “Ah, hey, I’ve gotta run. Sorry to drop in and dash. Maybe we can hang out tomorrow? I gotta help Sean from Mr. Thompson’s class with Spanish in the afternoon, but I’ll be home so you can drop by if you want. Anyway, catch ya later.”

And he’s gone again.

I sit there until my lunch goes cold.

I haven’t visited anyone’s house but my uncles’ since I was about six. And it’s not like teenagers sit and make crayon drawings while eating alphabet cookies and drinking watered-down grape juice.

What do boys my age do when they hang out anyway? That’s not something people teach you.

I pack up the remains of my food. When I put it back in the bag, I catch a glimpse of a round leather case.

I take it out and open it. Inside is a handful of smaller disc-shaped cases and a couple of rectangular cases, one thin and one long. I lift this one out carefully.

The cover falls back to reveal a wide-angle lens.

I’ve wanted one for ages. Down the road from our neighborhood is a beach and the sunsets are always breathtaking. But a normal lens can’t capture it right. The field of view is tiny, and the glare’s bad and the colors end up weak.

I take out the others and look in each of them. The second rectangular one has GND filters and a holder. The rest are mostly color filters, but there’s special effects filters too.

My chest tightens. I can’t even guess how much all this cost. Lenses can cost hundreds, and a single filter can be near a hundred dollars. This many couldn’t have been cheap.

I put everything back. The case has a shoulder strap so I put it on with my camera and start walking.

It’s done raining but it’s still overcast. The puddles have already started drying up. Passing cars leave trails of mist and petrichor. There’s no people and traffic is slow. It’s one of those times where it feels like you could drop a penny and it wouldn’t even clink.

The sidewalk ends and turns to coarse dirt. The clouds break up and I feel sun on my neck. A gull cries somewhere far away.

The path twists some and then straightens out. The dirt changes to sand that clumps on my shoes before falling off.

I look up. Azure waves undulating as far as my eyes can see. It’s not sunset but it’s close. Clusters of wispy clouds stretch the sky, turning bright colors.

I sit down to wait. I put the new lens on my camera, then the filter holder. I slide in the reverse GND filter and lift it up to check the difference.

This time, I can get that picture.

The sun creeps lower. Lower. Half-down now, and this is the sweet spot when the sky is red and orange and pink, like someone’s lit it on fire, the horizon one rosy slash through the world, and the sea crashes out to meet it in shimmers of cyan and sapphire and aquamarine.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and lift my camera. I take one picture, then two and three.

Then I put everything back and head home.

I visit the drug store on Sunday morning. Mr. Colt runs it and he’s the only person besides me with a dark room. I would develop the film myself but I haven’t had time since school started.

I don’t talk much but Mr. Colt doesn’t talk at all except in ASL. His granddaughter helps him out most of the time.

Today neither of us says much, in ASL or aloud. I hand over my film and the money to get them developed and Mr. Colt hands me a receipt and that’s all.

Today’s cold. My fingers get chilly and my cheeks sting when the wind blows.

I count the steps from the drug store. Four thousand, seven hundred eighty-six. I look up.

The doors slide open. I smell disinfectant. I step in and the receptionist smiles—a sad kind of smile. When I get to the desk she’s already holding out my tag.

I mumble my thanks and head to the elevator. It shuts and then opens with a ding. I count my steps down the hallway. Two hundred thirty-two.

I grab the door handle and slide it open, shut it behind me.

The beep and drone of machinery are the only sounds here. The curtain’s open but the blinds are closed to block sunrays, so the light is a mix of harsh and surreal. It’s like stepping halfway into a dream.

I sit down next to the bed.

There’s stubble on his face. Probably they’ll shave it soon. The bruises are faded, but I can still trace the edges of their yellowed bodies. I’ve heard people compare this look with the one of people sleeping peacefully, but to me it just looks like he’s made of wax.

I look away, the breath thinning in my lungs.

Outside birds are singing. It’s a distant, muffled sound. The wind whistles against the window panels and I hear voices in the hall and other rooms. Signs of life that seem like hallucinations in this still room.

It’s almost eleven when I leave. Nothing changed the whole time I sat there. Even sleeping people move, but he doesn’t.

I head back to the elevator. It shuts and then opens. I lift my head to walk out into the lobby but find my feet frozen.

A pair of people enter. One of them is a tall, pale lady probably my mom’s age with a headful of black curls and sort of intense blue eyes. The other is Fischer.

Fischer spots me in the corner of the elevator and grins. He always does and I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m that interesting.

“Hey, Theo,” he says.

The elevator closes. I gather my voice but it sticks, so I wave instead.

Mrs. Fischer draws out an ‘oh’. “So this is the boy you keep talking about.”

Fischer flushes. “Mom—”

She’s already folding my hand in both of hers. “It’s lovely to meet you, Theo. I’m Dean’s mom. Please, call me Teresa.”

Fischer’s eyes flick over my face, then to Mrs. Fischer—Teresa. “Theo’s kind of quiet, but he’s cool.”

“My goodness, really? What a relief.” Teresa smiles, as warm and easy as her son, and winks. “Heaven knows Dean does enough talking for four people. Especially about you lately!”

“Mom!”

I smile, because it’s kind of funny and Fischer’s cute. Lucky for me, the elevator opens again before I have to think up an answer. My mood sombers.

They step out, and I follow out of habit before realizing how weird and stupid it is. But Fischer speaks before I can stammer through an apology.

“We’re just visiting my dad. You can come with if you want, he’d love to meet you.” He grins, sheepish this time. “I kind of did talk about you a lot.”

“Oh, um. . .”

Teresa puts her arm over my shoulders and squeezes. “Now, don’t be so shy. He won’t bite. Sì, he might prattle your ears off, but if you can handle Dean, you can handle Jorge.”

"Mom.”

Teresa shushes him.

I’m still processing the sudden turn of things when we reach another door and Fischer pulls it open for us. Teresa steers me in and says, “Mi amor, look who we found.” I can’t tell what the rest is because she says it in Spanish, but Fischer protests again.

Mr. Fischer looks older than Teresa but also shorter. His hair is thin and doesn’t cover much of his head. Some parts are streaked white. He has a moustache and a goatee and one of his teeth has a gold crown.

Whatever Teresa said makes him grin wide and brightens the twinkle in his eyes, and he looks younger. There’s a deep dimple in his left cheek and a shallow one in his right.

He waves me over. “Come here, niño, let me have a look at you.”

I feel a little awkward at first, but the feeling doesn’t last. Fischer and his dad get to talking and don’t stop. Mr. Fischer gives me a floppy hat he knitted. Teresa passes around street tacos that taste amazing. Fischer asks about photography and I ramble about it without feeling weird for the first time ever. Mr. Fischer even asks me to take a picture for them.

Before I know it, it’s two in the afternoon and Fischer’s picking up his bag. “I gotta go,” he says. He hugs his dad, then kisses his mom on the cheek. “I promised Sean I’d help him with Spanish.”

He hefts his bag up over his shoulder, then looks at me with a smile. “You coming with or staying here?”

“Oh.” I scramble to my feet. “Um, yeah. I’ll come.”

His parents say goodbye and we leave. The halls seem a little looser than before, less impersonal and cruel. I guess when a place holds your pain it’s easy to forget it holds other people’s joy.

We get to Fischer’s house before Sean does. I take my shoes off at the door but Fischer just walks in and up the staircase. The door to his room is open and the dog’s sleeping on his bed. The rest of the room is buried under laundry, sketchpads, comics, and a bunch of art supplies. There’s an iPad on his desk next to this weekend’s homework.

“Uh, sorry it’s so messy,” he says, dropping his bag by the bed and giving the dog a pat. “I try to keep it clean but I get distracted and it ends up like this.”

“It’s fine.” I’m still too busy taking in the rest of everything—posters on walls, shelves of novels and manga and even more sketchbooks, lights strung up along the ceiling. Fischer’s room is an explosion of personality. It’s not like mine—neat, almost lifeless.

The bed is basically the only clean spot so I sit there. While Fischer picks up a little I study the pins on his bag. Most of them are goofy phrases or tiny frogs. But there’s a rainbow one too.

Sean shows up a few minutes later, and I fade into the background while Fischer helps him study. But it’s not a bad sort of fade where I feel like an outsider. Sometimes Fischer glances at me and smiles. It’s nice.

I mostly sit and pet the dog. His nametag says Cod. Cod licks my hands a few times, then puts his head on my thigh and dozes.

It’s around five when Sean leaves. The trees are gilded fall’s crimson sunset, pale pinks and purples smearing up from the skyline.

I turn to Fischer. “I’ve gotta go home too.”

“Oh, alright.” He smiles. “Sorry we didn’t do much.”

“That’s fine.” I open my mouth to say bye but what comes out instead is “Hey, um. . .You think you could help me with something? After school.”

“Yeah, sure.” I’m surprised he doesn’t even ask what before agreeing. “Whatcha need help with?”

I tell him my idea and he nods. “Let’s do it.”