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Glowing iridescent lights shone from Mr. Mullarky’s glass boxes. There were seven display cases in all, each packed full of cameras of different ages, colors, sizes, and shapes. Their silver edges gleamed, their black-and-brown leather casings shimmering right alongside the colorful price tags. The prices were outrageous. My face and hands pressed against the glass panes, etching cold silhouettes.

Mr. Mullarky came out of the back room with a perfectly square piece of white paper that hung heavy and wet in his hands. I ran to Grandma, eager to see what was there.

“It looks like it came out perfectly; there’s just a bit of light that must have snuck in there.”

He laid the paper on the glass counter and held the corners back to stop the picture from curling. It was me and my blank look, standing next to that juniper bush out by the pi?on trees. The print created a perfect circle of image on the white paper. Just to my left, above my shoulder, was the light. I wanted to tell Grandma about the man I had seen just before the picture was taken, but I knew better than to say it in front of Mr. Mullarky.

“Sometimes that happens, you know,” Mr. Mullarky said. “Maybe some light snuck in from the side. Looks like sunset. That can be tricky.”

“Well, at least it came out. Not bad for me, though, Tom. I haven’t done this in years.”

“Hold on.” Mr. Mullarky walked to the back and returned with the black plastic sleeve. “I’ve put some more paper in there for you. Maybe you two can try it again. I put that print in there for you too—the one of Nelson.” Nelson was my grandpa, but he died long before I was born.

Grandma and Mr. Mullarky shared an aching smile before they said their goodbyes. I investigated the front window display. ON SALE: POLAROID SX-70 LAND CAMERA—GET YOUR PICTURES NOW. My grandma walked up from behind me and tugged at my shirt. She shook the plastic sack and smiled.

“We have an instant camera.”

As we drove back in the quiet, I wanted so desperately to tell Grandma about what happened to her picture. I wanted to tell her about the man, how he smiled at her and at me, and about the love I felt radiating from his heat. I was scared that she might think I was crazy. The yellow of the setting sun reminded me of the warmth of those ten seconds when I stared into Grandma’s black camera and held my breath. I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was alone in the truck. I saw my grandma holding the door with her elbow, her arms full of paper sacks. I got out and helped her unload. Grandma only let me get the small bags that weren’t too heavy. By the third trip, I was sweaty. She sent me out one last time to get the sleeve.

“Do you have any peaches in any of those bags?” a voice spoke out.

The warmth of his light began to build on my face. It was the man, but he was formless—a portion of a face beside my grandma’s coyote fence. Startled, I ran inside, my heart racing, my throat dry and sticky. I slammed the front door behind me to catch my breath.

“What’s the matter?” Grandma said. “Your face is red. Are you okay?” She pushed me to the table and took the black sleeve from me. “Sit down.” She poured some apple juice into a glass and put it in front of me. “Drink.”

I swallowed the liquid without taking a breath. My chest heaved and my heart ached. Grandma pulled one of her cloth flour bags out and soaked it in cold water, then wrapped it around my neck. I was starting to feel better when two crimson lines poured from my nose and dotted the table.

“Goodness,” Grandma said, moving the dripping rag to my face. “I think we had a little bit too much fun today, she’awéé’.” She pulled me in close and touched my forehead.

I still felt the heat on my face, the warmth that had bled through. Grandma rose and put a pot of water on the stove with two bundles of Navajo tea. The room filled with the smell as I rolled my basketball under the kitchen table with my foot.

Grandma cleaned her hands on her apron and moved to the table. I watched her take a picture about the size of my hands from the black bag. She smiled as she sat.

“I just love this picture,” she said. “I haven’t seen any photos of your grandpa in years. That trunk of mine is way too heavy to lift.” She took off her glasses and rubbed the red marks left on her nose. Her shoulders shook, so I walked to her and put my little hands on her back. I turned to see the picture framed between her thumbs: his hair was cut short, and his cheekbones were high and handsome. He wore a cotton button-up shirt and pleated slacks; his army coat hung on his arm. He was smiling deeply, a dimple on his cheek.

“Grandma.” I pointed to the picture. “Grandma, that’s the man who made the light on your picture.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw him yesterday.”

Time stopped. Grandma’s gaze was strong and bottomless. I felt her hands shake as she held onto me, looking into my eyes.

I sensed her panic, love, and longing all at once in that moment. The yellow light filled the room again—I saw the man behind her, his body forming only when he neared her. He was still young and smiling. The light reflected on half of Grandma’s face made her look younger than any picture I had ever seen of her.

“Rita! Don’t lie to me.” She shook me to attention. “When did this happen? When I took your picture?”

“Grandma,” I said. “It’s happening right now.”