I got Noah out of the car.
Before I could knock, Emma opened the back door.
Noah immediately announced,
“Grandma came to see the garage.”
Emma looked at me.
“Mom, I was actually going to—”
Too late.
I was already walking past her.
The red glow came from small decorative lights strung across one wall.
Underneath them were photographs.
Some framed.
Others clipped along pieces of twine.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
Then I recognized the young woman in the pictures.
Me.
Decades younger.
Sunburned.
Laughing.
Looking as though life had never hurt me yet.
Relief came first.
There was no emergency.
No crime.
No reason Noah should have mentioned the police.
It was just some elaborate birthday display.
Then I noticed the camera sitting on the workbench.
Small.
Dark.
Old.
A faded sticker clung crookedly to one side.
My hand started toward it.
Then stopped.
