I quietly said, “Excuse me.”
She turned around.
I pointed toward the cover-up.
“Where did you get that?”
She looked down at what she was wearing.
“This?”
“Yes.”
She paused.
“I’ve had it for years.”
I could barely keep my voice steady.
“Where did you get it?”
She looked at me with a puzzled expression.
I reached for my phone.
My hands were shaking so badly that I dropped it.
I picked it up and tried again.
After several attempts, I finally opened the photograph I had kept for eight years.
Nora was standing on the beach.
Sixteen years old.
Smiling.
Wearing the turquoise cover-up.
And there, near the bottom of the fabric, was the same crooked yellow sun.
I held the screen toward the woman.
She stared at the photograph.
She didn’t say anything.
For several seconds, she simply looked at Nora.
Then she looked back at me.
