CASSIAN
I paid the man before Julian could even ask.
By the time I handed over the money, Julian had already walked out onto the stone steps.
He lifted the heavy black box to his face, pointed it across the narrow alley at an old green door with peeling paint, and pressed the button.
Click.
When he pulled the camera down, his face had that same bare, clean look from the day we arrived.
He looked like he'd just pulled off a trick no one thought he could do.
After that, he photographed everything.
I mean everything. He spent half a roll of film just trying to catch the way the morning light hit the ripples in our water jug.
He took pictures of the grey cat on the wall, the blue rim of his coffee cup, the old wooden crates at the market, the way the shutters threw long black lines across our bedroom floor at three in the afternoon, and the small wooden boats tied up at the stone pier.
But mostly, he pointed the thing at me.
