The portraits for the wall were made in those gaps, not in a lineup.
Twenty minutes is the truth of the schedule. We do not ask a driver to miss a departure.
The dispatch television loops them. From the door you can tell who is who.
The desk sits on Strada Stefan cel Mare, across from the bus park. The people who call are growers, stall holders, and the depot. A brief that wants a styled kitchen goes somewhere else. By ten in summer the dust is on every face. We shoot before it, or we leave it. Cleaning a Cahul morning until it looks imported is the mistake we stopped making.