“There was no pileup on Highway twenty-three,” Claire said.

She leaned back against the tall wooden frame of her chair and folded her hands tightly over the album cover.

“He carried you out the front door while I was down the block at the laundromat,” she said.

I put the green horse back down on the oilcloth runner, right beside the empty tea mug.

“I need to go,” I said.

“Take the photograph with you,” Claire said, slipping the nineteen eighty-nine print out of its black paper tabs.