She squints her left eye and presses her face against the camera, twisting the front of the lens until the blur becomes a shape and the shape morphs into a face. Suddenly she is confronted with his eyes, black, penetrating except for a dash of light that gives them some life. She can see him but he cannot see her as he lights his cigarette. He sits on the edge of his bed with the diffused sun pouring in from the open door and a yellow light glows in the squalid bathroom. The world slows down, the shutter clicks and she feels a weight in her hands. She tries to handle her lens with the sensibility of an ethnographer, documenting how people live, the choices they make and how these end up defining their circumstances. She thinks of the warmth of home and the coldness of the real world. She feels the bubble around her evaporate. Billy is blind, he lives in a filthy cottage on Highway 17. There is a TV in his room but he listens to the radio. He believes in Jesus and makes her read the bible to him. "How does one pray for a Muslim?" he asks.