We all head outside in our pairs, cameras in hand, the low autumn light turning everything a little softer than it had been even an hour ago. The paved stretch behind the arts block still holds some warmth from earlier in the day, but the air itself is cooler now, carrying the faint scent of damp earth from the lawns below.
It is, annoyingly, exactly the sort of exercise Landry has previously done well with.
I have heard him analyse photographs in class. I have seen the contact sheets from his field shots, the strange clean loneliness of the pumpkins on my birthday, the way he finds space in places other people would simply call empty. His eye is not accidental, no matter how irritating that is to admit.
For a few moments, neither of us says anything, the other students dispersing into
