It was the last photo Roland’s father took before he left. Wasn’t even one of the real museum photos like he’d been known for; just one of the last few snapped off to use up the roll before mailing it back to his mother with two hundred dollars and his wedding ring. Photo still came out looking like a prize-winner; his father just had that way with photographs. More than his way with people, at least.

Roland’s father died a few years later, in a messy business everyone worked to forget as soon as possible. And Roland’s mother wasn’t stupid: she kept that roll of film in a safe, and any time a bill went unpaid too long, she’d draw it out and sell a photo. There was always someone willing to buy one of the Last Originals.

Even this one. This one’d be gone already, if Roland hadn’t filched it from the safe and kept it in his room.

The guilt of having the picture ate at Roland, but he never told. He didn’t even know why he kept it. He didn’t like his father very much, or the business that drew him away from his family. But somehow, Roland couldn’t let that photo go.

Even when he was in high school, and there were no more photos to sell, and money got tight. Even when his mother would check and check again in the safe, in the hopes of finding one last frame to pay the gas bill or keep the lights on. The harder things got, the harder Roland held onto that picture.

When the bank started sending letters about the mortgage, Roland picked up a camera.

He’d learned enough from his father’s photos to know how to shoot something decent, and enough from his mother to know how to sell it. He photographed old tin cans and stone walls and back roads and burned tires. Anything timeless. Anything that could be discovered in an old coffee can. Everybody wanted the Last Original. And Roland made sure each one got it.

He got clumsy toward the end, accidentally catching a Toyota Hybrid in a photo that shouldn’t have been taken after 1993. Some car website caught on, and the story broke big. Twenty-five former customers ringing his mother’s phone off the hook, demanding to know which photo, if any, was the real Last Original.

One of the calls was from Vanity Fair, offering Roland a cover spot for his photography, and more money than he’d ever seen written out before.

After that call, his mother rang up each angry buyer, and listened to their complaints for as long as they wanted to yell. And then, she would tell them each the same thing, and each became very quiet, and at the end, each would apologize.

“Roland took those photos in high school, and you thought they were made by a master in his prime. You’re so concerned with the Last Original? The last – and maybe the only – worthwhile thing my ex-husband ever created was my son. He’s the Last Original, and what you’ve got are his earliest works. Now, if you’d like to send them back, I’d be glad to return your money. There are some people in New York who are very eager to have them.”