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never seen any of them before. Again and again, a card next to a photograph indicated that each was from Packard’s own collection. Their dates ranged from the fifties to the nineties, making clear that Packard
hadn’t
given up photography in his later years. He had simply chosen not to let the public see his work. Coltrane’s excitement changed to dismay when the force of the images hit him. This second act of Packard’s career emphasized the decay that he had only hinted at in his earlier work. Each photograph was devoted to blight — a dead seagull trapped in an oil spill, an emaciated child eating garbage, a brush fire destroying a spindly multimillion-dollar house perched ridiculously on a Los Angeles hilltop.
    Repelled, Coltrane forced his way to another wall, oblivious to the annoyed looks people gave him as he shoved past. The next pictures were even more disturbing — policemen standing around a woman’s corpse in an alley, a caged pit bull snarling at children who taunted it with sticks, a man attacking another man during a riot. The black-and-white images had been printed to emphasize their shadows, the bleakness chilling. The only thing missing was a photograph of jumbled skeletons being clawed from the earth by a backhoe. Stumbling away, wanting nothing more than to leave, Coltrane felt the back of his legs bump against an upright metal circle with spindles and nearly toppled backward over it, catching his balance just in time, sensing with embarrassment that what he had struck was a wheelchair.
    He quickly turned. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t . . .” His apology froze in his throat when he recognized the chair’s occupant.
    Randolph Packard was wizened, but he still bore an uncanny resemblance to photographs that had been taken of him in his prime. Even in a wheelchair, he was tall, his thinness emphasizing his height. His trademark shock of hair over his forehead had receded, becoming wispy and white, but it was nonetheless recognizable. The hypnotic eyes were darker, the face narrower, the nose more bladelike. But despite being withered, with liver spots, his slack skin barely concealing his skull, he was unmistakably Packard.
    “This chair’s taken, thank you.” Packard coughed, as if he had sand caught in his throat.
    “I apologize. I should have looked where I was going,” Coltrane said. “Are you hurt?”
    “The truth
never
hurts. Tell me what you think of my photographs.”
    Coltrane was taken by surprise. “They’re, uh . . .”
    “Indescribable, evidently.”
    “. . . impressive.”
    “You don’t make it sound like a compliment.”
    Coltrane was determined to be tactful. “They’re technically perfect.”
    “Technically?” Packard coughed more forcefully, still unable to get the sand from his throat. “That camera around your neck — is that a fashion statement? Don’t tell me you’re a photographer.”
    “Yes.” Coltrane stiffened. “Yes, I’m a photographer.”
    “Oh, well, then. Since you’re a photographer. What don’t you like about these photographs?”
    Coltrane felt bile in his stomach. “They’re too bleak for my taste.”
    “Is that a fact.”
    “Actually, if you want to talk about facts, they’re ugly.”
    “Ugly?”
    “Coming here was important to me. I needed hope, not despair.”
    Packard didn’t say anything for a moment, only steadied his wrinkle-rimmed eyes on Coltrane, then nodded. “Well, good for you.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I asked for the truth. You’re the only person in this room who gave it to me. What are you holding there?”
    “One of your collections.”
    “You brought it for an autograph?”
    “That was my intention.”
    “But now you’re not sure.”
    “That’s right.”
    “And you’re really a photographer?”
    Coltrane nodded.
    “Then tell me something else that’s true. Why did you become a photographer?”
    Coltrane turned to leave. “I won’t bother you any longer.”
    “I asked you a