“Did Grandpa know my dad?”

My father recoiled as though the question had struck him.

I rose slowly to my feet, watching him, because the truth was that I did not know the answer, and I had come here in part to find it.

“That,” I said quietly, “is one of the things we’re here to discover.” My father was staring down at the photograph in his shaking hands, at the image of himself standing beside Julian outside the plant, and his face was a study in confusion and dawning dread.

“I don’t remember this,” he said, and his voice was hoarse.