The day before my friend Tayler Smith and I found out our photo series was appropriated into the New Yorker, I woke up to a text message from another friend. We’re psychic sisters; she has a nightmare one night, I have one the morning after. Her message was a two-liner: “I see your imprint everywhere. You are owed. I love you.” Twelve hours later, I sent one back, a question first posed by Leslie Jamison: “What’s the difference between empathy and theft?” It started raining, it kept raining. I felt a headache start to bubble behind my right eyelid. I fell asleep reading the New Yorker.
Six hours later, we saw a screenshot of our work, mine and Tayler’s, altered only slightly and miscredited to someone else. In the New Yorker.