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Show Motherlunge a novel 106 The booth buzzed as the developer was switched on. I put myself in an image: I was sitting in the half-dark outside the box that contained my boyfriend, and I was surrounded by his photos-shots of people and plants, pets, toys. Did they suck? As we used to say in those days: Who knew? Not one of the photos was of me. Eli's voice continued. "They're boring. I don't like the darks on a lot of the prints. I'm wishing I had time to shoot a bunch more, but probably I should go with what I have." The buzzers went on and off again. "God. I feel like just dropping off the prints and leaving town." "You can't do that," I said. "You won't know how it turns out." Eli opened the door of the booth, and my small, transparent heart was like a minnow when you shine a flashlight on the water at night. "Eli, they're great. Believe me," I said, and he pushed a hand through his black hair, and grimaced gratefully through the murk. Somewhere along in here, January to April, Dorothy was officially declared Treatment Resistant, which Pavia, Walter, and I were gratified to hear. To us, this was much better than Situational, Likely Responsive With Additional Interventions. No one in our family really wanted to intervene. Except Pavia, a little. She had the good idea to have herself named our mother's legal guardian. This, Pavia said, was insurance against Dorothy's inevitable next episode. As her guardian Pavia could prevent her from getting credit cards. She could make sure |