The picture looked as if it’d been snapped when the subjects were not quite ready, in mid-gather. Some of the heads were turned so you only saw a profile. One dark-haired girl, on the very right edge of the photo, you could only see the back of her head, really, and a denim jacket. Next to her there was another girl, this one with flaming-red hair and eyes spaced wide apart.

Near the middle, one girl, a blonde, had-God, what the hell was that about?-her face had a giant X across it. Like someone had crossed her out.

How had this picture…?

As Grace kept staring, she felt a small ping in the center of her chest. The three women-she didn’t recognize them. The two men looked somewhat alike, same size, same hair, same attitude. The guy on the far left too was not someone she knew.

She was sure, however, that she recognized the other man. Or boy. He wasn’t really old enough to call a man. Old enough to join the army? Sure. Old enough to be called a man? He was standing in the middle, next to the blonde with the X through her face…

But it couldn’t be. His head was in mid-turn for one thing. That adolescent-thin beard covered too much of his face…

Was it her husband?

Grace bent closer. It was, at best, a profile shot. She hadn’t known Jack when he was this young. They had met thirteen years ago on a beach in the Côte d’Azur in southern France. After more than a year of surgery and physical therapy, Grace was still not all the way back. The headaches and memory loss remained. She had the limp-still has it now-but with all the publicity and attention from that tragic night still suffocating her, Grace had just wanted to get away for a while. She matriculated at the University of Paris, studying art in earnest. It was while on break, lying in the sun on the Côte d’Azur, that she met Jack for the first time.