Beautiful. The sunlight falls perfectly against his face, reflecting sharp and clear off its angles. Brown eyes squint at the light. And that smile, so sweet, sincere, spontaneous, a happy moment captured on film. Yes, it’s a splendid piece of work, but it doesn’t change that awful question. Can I love the boy smiling at me from this photograph? No, not at me. Smiling at her. “Oh.” I spin around at the unexpected voice. Sean is standing behind me, staring at the picture I’ve been examining. I want to hide the photograph from him, but I can’t move my hands. I’ve never seen a deer caught in headlights, but I’ve heard it’s like the poor thing’s been frozen, pinned in place, and I feel a little like that now. “So this is him?” “Yes.” “Bit pasty, isn’t he, for an Indian kid?” “He’s not pasty.” “He’s fairer skinned than you. But you don’t get much of a tan, seeing as you spend your life in this marvelous climate. What’s his excuse?” “He’s half French.”
