Sandi gaped at him uncertainly, wondering just what it was about his piercing blue eyes that made her feel so exposed. "Oh no… I mean… I was… I was looking for a Mr. Fletcher," she explained, wishing again that she'd worn something that didn't reveal quite so much of her shapely legs.

The slim-hipped, long-haired youth grinned down at her, the pressure of his hand upon her arm increasing as he laughed, "Well, you found him!"

"You're… you're not…?" Sandi was astounded. She'd certainly not expected that woman at the agency to send her out for an interview with someone who looked for all the world like a college student from nearby Notre Dame. Why, he didn't look as old as her twenty-five year old husband Verne, and what with those sideburns, boyishly waving long hair, and faded and patched cut-offs, she just couldn't picture him as a prospective employer. Of course, she'd expected a foreign photographer to look somewhat more eccentric than an ordinary business executive, but a bearded, baggy-trousered, bereted little man was more the image she'd conjured up.

"Tony W. Fletcher, Fashion Photographer," the dark-haired youth tapped his tanned, well-muscled chest, looking vastly amused at the attractive young blonde's self-conscious confusion. "And when I make the effort I actually look quite respectable enough to impress the good citizens of Brunrocke, Indiana. Come on in."

Before she knew quite what was happening, Sandi Smith found herself being led back up the cement steps and into a dimly lit, very narrow hallway. To the left was a steep flight of stairs, and at the end of the corridor was a shiny black door on which was painted in red, "knock before entering".

"Darkroom," said Tony in response to her unasked question. Then, taking the bewildered blonde's arm, he guided her up to the second story and along a corridor decorated with rather bizarre black and white fashion photos done in a very modernistic style.