Chapter 12Saalik watched old movies while Wyatt spent days in and out of the darkroom and sitting at the coffee table sorting through prints—switching out some, changing the print size of others—and hours upon hours strategically hand-tinting lips and eyes, or whatever he saw in his mind.
“Why do you take your photographs in black and white but then paint on them?”
“My mom, I guess.” Wyatt shrugged, standing up and stretching before returning to his work. “I used to help her in her dark room, and I loved it. I still use her old camera.”
“And the painting?”
“When my mom died, Teddy and I went through her closet. We moved around a lot after my father left for good, and always traveled light, you know? But we found a banged-up lock box that Teddy managed to open with a flathead screwdrive
