Natalie sat on the bench. Claire sat beside her. They did not hold hands. Their shoulders touched, lightly, the way the shoulders of two people touch on a crowded bus, and neither of them moved away.
Calvin raised the camera. He looked at them through it for a long moment. Behind his glasses, his eyes were very bright.
"Whenever you're ready," he said quietly.
Eighteen years ago, in this room, Natalie had not been ready, and he had taken the picture anyway, because there was no other way. She thought of that girl now, in the borrowed blue sweater, with the bracelet still on her wrist and her eyes cast down at what she was about to lose. She wished she could reach back across the years and lift that girl's chin with two fingers, gently, the way Calvin did, and tell her: someday you will sit here again. It will not be forgiveness, exactly. It will not be what you lost. But it will be something, and you will be allowed to look at it.
She lifted her head. Beside her, she felt Claire draw a breath.
"Ready," Natalie said, and looked straight into the light.