There are hundreds of them. Some are compiled into little green booklets from the pharmacy. Others are stacked together, bound with rubber bands. Still, others are loose, tossed into the safety-deposit box, seemingly without order. The one thing that unites all the pictures: they’re of Garrett, Aubrey, or Mollie, or some combination of the three. Who goes through the trouble of actually developing physical photographs anymore? And why lock them away in a bank when they’re clearly meant to be enjoyed?
