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Grady

Grady sits, then stands. He empties the trash. He turns on the television and flips some channels. He turns it off. He sits.

Tim looks at him wearily. “Stop being so–so preoccupied with this.”

“I get preoccupied with things for a living, Tim,” snaps Grady. “I can spend three rolls of film being preoccupied with the angle out of a car wreck, or a cemetery gate, or–”

“So get preoccupied with something else,” says Tim.

Grady stares at him, tapping his leg, then goes to get his old Nikon.

“Don’t look at me,” he says, and starts taking pictures.

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