Daniel Brennan had taken that photograph. Nobody made him. He had lifted his phone above his unconscious seventeen-year-old daughter, framed her face, and pressed the button, and then he had sent it to eleven people because he wanted them to feel something.

He had never once, in two years, thought about the four seconds in which he decided to do that.

He thought about them now, in the rain, under a billboard, for a long time.

Lily was on the couch when he got home, with her laptop and a mug of the tea she drank in the evenings because caffeine after two gave her headaches.

“You saw it,” she said, without looking up.

“Ray told me.”