Page 175 of The Best Shot

“Been asking me things for an hour.”

That made her smile. “Fair. Can I take your picture?”

I looked at her, then at the camera sitting by her elbow, small and black and worn at the edges. “Why?”

She thought about it.

“You have a good face,” she said, finally. “And I’d like to remember it.”

I considered that. “All right.”

She didn’t reach for it. She set the board up again instead, and we played a third.

Somewhere in the middle of the game, my hand hovered over a bishop, and I heard the shutter.

Click.

Then once more.

That was all.

I moved the bishop.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Any good?”

“Yes. Would you like to see?”

“Nah.” I shook my head. “I trust you.”

We finished the game and packed the pieces together, our hands moving easily around each other.

She closed the box.

I looked past her, toward the edge of the park.

“Someone’s waiting.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Yes.”

I tipped my chin. “You should go to him.”

She stood. “Thank you, Harry.”

“For what?”

“For the game.” She paused. “For him.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded.

She crossed the grass to the edge of the park, where a tall man waited with his hands in his pockets.

He pulled her close without a word, and they held each other a long time.

Then the man looked up. Across the distance, our eyes met. For one clear breath—one heartbeat—I knew him.

My boy.