And now here she was, sixteen years old, doing the exact opposite: not fleeing the frame but claiming it, not sliding to its edge but standing at its center, not turning her marked side away but throwing her head back and laughing so that every inch of her showed.

It was the same girl, the same camera, the same birthmarks.

Only everything had changed.

The thing she had spent sixteen years running from, she now ran toward.

The instrument of her exposure had become the instrument of her joy, in the hands of the little brother who had taught her that being seen was not a danger to survive but a gift to receive.

My sister had said that Maya’s presence damaged every photograph.