Seven o’clock. Huh. Last time I looked it was only six, and the time before that, somewhere around four. The night drowned in the hours I was working on photography, clicking through pictures, polishing, discarding. Carlos bought one of my test Plywerk runs, a large black and white print of Vancouver in winter, a man standing to the right of a snowy street, elegantly silhouetted in the midst of chaos just off screen, a glittering sea of girls in club dresses with high heels up to here, shivering on the arms of loud men, boys really, too drunk to fuck, too young to care. My first photography sale at the new shop, the first, I hope, of many. I remember the very small sound my camera made in that moment, somehow saved for me by the miraculous insulating properties of snow. Even in the midst of a thousand voices shouting into cellphones, desperate, dangerous, all seeking cabs, I could still hear it, that minuscule, hesitant click.