"You don’t have to say that. I don’t regret any of our history." With deep reluctance, as if handing over a hostage, she gave him the photo again. "I know that we parted badly, but I always followed your work. You were clever, you were very creative. You were never afraid to speak your mind. I didn’t always agree with what you said, but I always felt proud of you. I was proud that I knew you before the rest of the world caught on." That was true. She was so old that she could still remember when they called that kind of work "films." Films—long strips of plastic printed with darkness and light. The memory of film, the sense and the substance of the medium of film, brought her a nostalgia sharp as broken glass.