Nora laughed when she saw it.
“It looks weird now.”
My mother smiled.
“It looks one of a kind.”
Nora rubbed the stitching between her fingers.
“I think I like it better this way.”
For eight years, I remembered those words.
I had taken one photograph of Nora wearing that cover-up about forty minutes before she vanished.
She was standing barefoot in the sand, squinting into the sun and holding up one hand because she was telling me to stop taking pictures. StudyAnatomy
That photograph became the image everyone knew.
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