Mr. Parrish paced his empty studio like a distracted specter, chain-smoking the only pack of cigarettes he could locate. A pack of stylish black cloves left behind in a small gap in the wall behind where the old wardrobe used to be.

He opened the window and braced himself against the frame several stories above the ground, looking down at the cars like toys below, the people small as dollies and not nearly so well dressed.

Cold autumn air chilled his skin and played with his long hair. The space was a corpse of itself, and he had snuck in through the fire escape, still able to pull himself up the jump at the bottom, albeit less gracefully than twenty years ago.

If he strained really hard, he could almost discern singing.

A worm of hope
A hangman’s rope
Pulls me one way or the other
A final curse
Abandoned hearse
We write this song
Corroded to the bone
A bird of song…

“Got a light?” a voice stated deadpan behind him.

Nothing surprised him anymore. Nothing.

Beside him, with a hand on his right shoulder, was a sharply dressed young man wearing wide-trousered, smart black suiting with a shirt of blood-red satin.

He barely blinked. His eyes were of a color Parrish could not describe, other than that he had seen galaxies the same color, and petri dishes of penicillin ringed in kohl.

Parrish wordlessly handed a smoke over, and mixed with clove, he detected the scent of myrrh, frankincense, lily, and vetiver in the man’s cologne.

He was not tall, but slender, with high cheekbones and a peach complexion, his heart-shaped face framed with artistically unruly midnight-colored hair. He stood staring down at Cumberland below, inhaling his cigarette pensively.

“I knew you would be here,” said the stranger.

“Do I know you?” Parrish asked.

“Not recently. I used to be a Parish Boi, though.”

“Which shoot?”

“Broken mirror. I posed right here in this window. Looking down, realizing no one at all ever looked up, even when they knew us.”

“That almost never changed, kid. How did we meet?”

“Jayson Allegba. I was his second boyfriend before the accident.”

“Ah. Hershey Med.”

“Sadly.”

“Name?”

“Noir.”

“Common enough name in this industry.”

“Mine as well.”

“What do you do?”

“Collections. I was hoping you could accompany me. Would two grand be enough to follow my ass around with a camera for a day?”

“Up front?”

Noir opened his jacket to the inside pocket, removed a classy little money clip holding a stack of bills, and handed it over in full.

“This is 3k.”

Noir shrugged.

“It is what it is. More reason to follow me, right?”

◇◇◇◇◆◇◇◆◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Noir evidently had a black hearse out back, and a young man wearing Joker-style face paint.

“Habibi, I need you to be good to Mr. Parrish.”

“No funny stuff?”

“Keep it tasteful.”

“Nice ride,” admired Mr. Parrish.

“So am I,” stated Habibi.

Noir did not seem impressed.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Mr. Parrish brought the Canon and a few extra lenses, only for candids.

Noir wasn’t very talkative. He sat rigidly in the back of the hearse, converted into a limousine, and silently poured two virgin tinto de verano with pomegranate and cherry 7UP, without being asked, and gracefully offered one to Parrish; then mixed grenadine and 7UP for the driver.

“So what do you want?”

“Whatever you think is worth the film.”

The hearse pulled into the parking lot of Hershey Medical Center.

Noir brushed his suit with a lint remover, offered it to Mr. Parrish, then proceeded to exit the car.

They approached the desk.

“How can I help you?” stated the woman in blue scrubs at reception.

“Hospital chaplain. May I have a guest tag for Mr. Parrish? He will accompany me today.”

“I hardly recognized you,” stated the nondescript woman brightly.

“I moved. I am only back in town briefly; I was given a list of patients who requested me anyway.”

Noir sighed at the list.

And so they walked the hallways: oncology, cardiac, pediatric, only stopping briefly in specific rooms.

Noir would knock. The patients were rarely awake, and the ones who were signed the release without hesitation.

There was no film.

Everything was digital.

The crash carts were always a step behind them.

Back at the parking garage, they stood on the topmost level under the “No Smoking” sign and shared a cigar.

“Am I dead?”

“You’re not on my list.”  Noir paused,

“I just needed someone who still looks up and can capture what still moves a person.   Alaraf needs a photography professor.”