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black sea; a few nude shots of Michelle who worked in the donut shop and posed with a huge stuffed panda bear, supposedly lost in some night reminiscence at the window. Her body was too voluptuous, her face without the character to express anything much.As a result, she looked like a pudgy woman staring at an outside clothesline hoping her underwear would soon dry. There was an unfruitful series of double-exposed photos, an attempt to imitate the Dutch artist Escher’s graphics, in which the same figures rose from the sea where their forms suggested fish and rose to the lighter sky where the spaces between them were perceived as birds in flight. The photographic representation was totally unsatisfactory; an experiment gone wrong. His fish could not be caught in the proper perspective and the gulls above appeared ready to dive and devour them. In the end, he had achieved nothing more than some semi-interesting double-exposures of fish and birds. There were a few comic shots of animals: a squirrel riding a cocker spaniel’s head and a sow with a kitten nursing along with its litter, for which the local newspaper and one defunct area magazine had paid March a little grocery money. Looking at his work now, through the eyes of Sarah, he felt a lack of artfulness. She however, seemed fascinated by it all: the contrasts in the black and white prints with their contrived shadows, the brilliance of the sunsets in color. Her eyes shined; she might have been touring the Louvre.
    It was
that
look, he realized, that had captured his attention on the pier that morning. An innocent fascination with life itself, in all of its aspects.
    ‘Well, I try,’ he said as she turned her head, her huge brown eyes pleased, offering that smile which was hesitant and amused all at once.
    Don walked into his bedroom and dug through hisdresser and closet. Shrugging, he emerged with the only suitable garment he could find: a faded blue bathrobe. On the way, he grabbed a towel she could use on her hair. His intention was to let her dry out, make her a hot cup of coffee to sip on while he went out searching for her mother. At least the girl was out of the rain. Maybe the storm would let up soon….
    She was naked, standing by the heater, when he re-entered the room. Her wet dress lay in a pile beside her.
    It was totally unnerving; her body was graceful and completely charming. Erotic. Yet her eyes as she turned to him were only childlike. He understood Sarah’s mother’s anger and concern now. She was a woman, but was not. After all, there were pictures of nude women on the wall. He had instructed her to remove her clothes, and so she had. How could she even imagine shame, this innocent?
    ‘Here, put this on,’ he said, handing her the bathrobe at arm’s length. He sat down on a white-painted wooden chair, studying her thoughtfully as she wrapped the robe around her with sublime grace.
    ‘Now I see, little one,’ he said. ‘Now I see. I didn’t understand before. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you until I can get you back to your family. I’m sure they’re worried about you.’
    Sarah dried her hair, carefully folded the towel and put it on the photograph-strewn table. She looked carefully at – without touching – March’s Nikon and the old Deardorff with its long 120mm lens; his still-unrepaired Hasselblad, the Pentax he had bought out of impulse and never yet evenloaded with film and the brand new Canon digital he had purchased just to experiment with, had not even finished paying for, and already detested.
    She was not to touch things she did not understand.
    Grandfather had taught her that many years ago at the old workbench when he had pinched her fingers in the big thing for dropping one of his experiments. Now, Sarah tied the robe and went back to studying the photographs on the wall, as the man watched her, saying nothing.
    There are so many worlds in this world, Sarah thought. It all depends on who is looking; which way the eye