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same thing.” John leaned forward, his arms on his desk. “But you’re correct. That was your suggestion, and I have done some thinking. I think we will involve the criminal justice system at this point and let them do a proper investigation.”
    “Now, John, that way, it’s never easy on the victims, is it?”
    “As opposed to… what? The option would be not becoming victims in the first place?”
    “John, the challenge for me is that this particular instructor is the son of a member of the board of supervisors for the university system here in New Mexico. Very powerful man, old school, you know? Long years of developing relationships, especially among the senior leadership at this university. He never forgets an enemy, and he keeps a tight hold of the fiscal reins.”
    “Ah. I see.” John sat back, studied the other man. “And do you suppose this old-school man knows what his son is doing in Albuquerque?”
    The dean studied the view out John’s window. “Nice office, this. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”
    “You could say that about my nephew as well. He’s much more like me than anyone realizes.” The alarm on the dean’s face at this statement was all John could have wished.
     
     
    J OHN had no intention of calling the police. He couldn’t without Kim’s consent, and if he was sure of anything, it was that Kim did not want the police involved. But the threat was a decent diversion, and it also made a reasonable backup plan.
    “One could say that self-portraiture is a form of meditation.” Kim slid a piece of toast and egg onto John’s plate. “There you go. Toad in a Hole.”
    “Self-portraits are a form of meditation? Maybe a form of psychotherapy. I would hesitate to suggest self-indulgence.” The egg was fried into a missing round of the toast, the whole slathered with butter. A grilled tomato joined the Toad on his plate.
    “Maybe meditation is too strong a word. I guess what I mean is photography can be used to learn about yourself. I just think that all the creative arts have a great potential for healing. And people really should be stepping up to the plate and trying to heal themselves.” Kim took a bite of his Toad in the Hole. “Hey, that’s good. Speaking of stepping up to the plate, how was the ball game?”
    “Decent. Not their best effort, and they seemed to be tired by the seventh. They’ve been on the road for a week. Also, Juan was along and he made it his business to torture his father.”
    “Oh, I wish I could have seen that! The Horse-Lord brought to his knees!”
    John gave him a sharp look. “Not to his knees. Let’s call it a draw. But it certainly appeared to exhaust them both.”
    “What is he, twelve?”
    “Fourteen.”
    “Well, no wonder, then. Hormones are raging! All you want to do when you’re fourteen is snatch up a broadsword and hack something to pieces, then find a big rock and fuck it to death.”
    “Good God.” John finished his Toad and pushed his plate back. Kim had made them beans on toast yesterday. Was he about to enter a British phase? John didn’t think he could take it if Kim started speaking with a British accent. He picked up the photograph Kim had brought to the table. He’d printed a double self-portrait, the camera covering his left eye and then his right. In one picture, the black eye and busted lip were plainly visible, and in the other, it was covered with his camera.
    “You see the difference?”
    “Tell me,” John said.
    “Look at the expression in the eyes. You see how I’m looking at myself, when I can see the damage? When it’s visible to the world? I look like a cringing dog, afraid to get hit. But the other one, where the damage is hidden, my eyes look different. Stronger. Maybe cooler. My filters are intact.”
    “What filters?”
    “Everyone looks at the world through filters, Uncle John. Usually identity, but it could be culture too, or language or