She simply breathed in the salt air, and watched the sun crest the horizon.

A few yards behind her, sitting on a weathered driftwood log, my son was adjusting the focus ring on his lens.

He was eleven now, a little taller, but with the same steady, observant quiet that had saved his sister’s spirit a year and a half before.

He did not tell her to turn around.

He did not command her to pose or tuck in her chin.

He simply waited for the light to hit the water, and framed his sister against the endless Atlantic, and pressed the shutter.