The bottom was falling out of the box. Gregor grunted and made a dash for his desk as photographs cascaded across his feet.

“Damn, damn, damn.” The box, having shed its load, collapsed completely in his arms. Gregor glanced at the door to his office to make sure nobody had seen him, then, knelt and began gathering up the glossy prints.

Most of the photos held faded grey and beige studies with white frames. Trench-coated men in black spectacles beside chrome-trimmed sedans. Women with bad skin smoking cheap cigarettes. Two children with soot smeared faces throwing rocks at a discarded TV. Scattered glass in sugar crystals at their feet. All stills from a bad arthouse movie.