I stacked the prints to store in my portfolio. I had so little documentation of my life that photography seemed the perfect occupation. And the more I could photograph, the more I’d get back after any memory resets, should the worst happen.
I only had a crappy old digital SLR I bought used, and the lens was rubbish, but my professor insisted that great art could be made with a box and a pinhole. The equipment was not the point.
Still, I was saving my tips for something better. It wasn’t easy, paying rent and going to school. But I was doing it.
For the first time, I was pursuing a dream, learning something on my own. And as both Big Harry and my neurologist had pointed out, even if I lost my episodic memory, a skill like this would stick. As soon as I reacquainted myself with the camera functions, I’d be able to quickly re-establish my ability to capture a great image.
When I set the portfolio aside, I realized Tucker hadn’t moved. “What’s up?” I asked, scooting closer so that our knees touched.
“I want you to see something,” he said, opening the photo app on his phone and turning the screen to me.
I took it from him. “A house. Pretty fancy. Not good lighting, though. It would have been an awesome shot about two hours later.”
“It’s your dad’s house.”
My belly dropped. “You mean Marcus?”
“Yeah. When Gram and I were in Houston, we drove by it.”
I peered closer. “They grow flowers. That’s good. It’s a nice house.” I passed the phone back. “What’s your point?”
“I’m going to have surgery in Houston in a few weeks.”
“You’re what?”
“It’s a good thing.” He took my hands in his. “The new doc says there’s this thing called a VNS they can attach to me and it might prevent the seizures.”
“Really?” I’d never heard of anything like that.
“It’s something they do for people who can’t take meds.”
“Is it safe?”
“They do it on little kids, even.”
I moved closer, climbing onto his lap and straddling his waist to face him. My fingers ran through his hair. He smelled of gardenia bath wash. Gram’s. He must have run out of his. “I don’t like the thought of someone cutting on you.”
“Hand me your camera,” he said, and I twisted around to lift it from the floor.
He turned it over in his hand. “How does this thing work?”
“Photo or video?”
“Video.”
I flipped it on and adjusted the settings for the light in the apartment. “What’s it for?”
He took it from me and held it out, the lens pointed toward us. “Is it rolling?”
I pressed the button to start the recording. “It is now.”
He turned to the camera. “I’m Tucker. The weird one. And this is Ava. She’s too good for me.”
I punched his ribs, but he only laughed. “We are about to embark on a great journey into the depths of my screwy brain.” I punched him again, and he could barely stoplaughing enough to talk. “Hey, I’m trying to save this for posterity.”
I pressed my face into his shoulder. What was he up to?
“In a few weeks hence, I will begin my transformation into Tucker Prime, part human, part machine.”
