It's after Bucky's crossed his heart and hoped to die that I realize I'm kinda grinning. It'd seem kind of stupid or babyish, I think, if someone else did it. At least someone else older'n say ten. It doesn't seem that way when Bucky does it, though, it seems swell.

I'm wishing I could've shown mom this picture, that she could have known about this when Bucky mentions art, and then my whole body jolts and I turn and run, back to where I left the photo on the ground. How could I have been that careless?

It only takes a moment and I spot it, and crouch down to so so carefully pick it up by its edges, and blow real gentle across its face to make sure no sand or anything got on it to scratch it.

It's fine. She smiles that sort of nervous and half-pleased smile up at me, and it's fine. I look back up at Bucky.

"This fell out of a book. I didn't look in it, but it's like one of those plain art books that I see some college type kids going around with, and also there's a man who's a little older, and he draws the pigeons that hang out on the roof of the bakery by my.... by my old house. He uses a book like that." I stand and nod down the hall toward the bedroom.

"I left it in there."