He laughed. It was a wet sound.
“Twenty miles,” he said. “Twenty miles away.”
Part Fifteen: The Photograph
After breakfast, there were supposed to be photographs on the front lawn. Fathers and sons.
Under the big magnolia tree.
The photographer was a woman named Mrs. Ortiz. She taught art at the academy. She had a big camera on a tripod and a list of families in a certain order.
She threw away the list.
The first picture she took was of Caleb and me.
Under the magnolia tree. Me in my dress blues. Caleb in his navy blazer. My hand on his shoulder.
The admiral stood off to the side and watched.
Then Caleb did something.
He reached into his backpack. Into the inside pocket. The one with the zipper that nobody else uses.
He took out the sandwich bag.
He unzipped it. He took out the photograph. The small, square one. His father on the back steps,
