It impressed me that out of everything on the site, she’d taken notice of that piece. The photos weren’t easy to look at, but they were real with a powerful message. Those particular shots were all in black and white.

“It was an assignment for a newspaper five years ago. You could say it chose me. I was working freelance at the time and traveled there with a reporter for a feature on the current state of Cuba and its people. It was one of my longest times away from home, actually. Only the photos are on my site, not the accompanying story.”

“Well, that’s the beauty of it. The photos tell the story even without the full explanation, which proves your talent. I’m not just saying that. Believe me, I’m a terrible liar. Your work is really amazing.”

I was never good at accepting compliments, especially about my work. But I tried.

“Thank you.”

“Will you tell me more about it?”

“The Cuba trip specifically?”

She leaned in, her eyes full of wonder. “Yeah.”

For some reason, I felt like obliging.

“I don’t know if you noticed the shots of the teenagers with tattoos. There’s this underground punk culture of young people there. Many of them were high on amphetamines when we were taking those photos.”

“Have you ever heard of Los Frikis?” she asked.

I nodded, surprised. “Yeah. Actually, I learned about them when I was there.”

“Those kids reminded me of a modern-day version of that. Hopefully things are better for the people you photographed than they were for their predecessors. I remember reading about Los Frikis and being totally blown away that some of them intentionally injected themselves with HIV to escape their own government. Imagine being forced to do manual labor or imprisoned just because you look different? So you make yourself sick to escape danger by being put in a quarantined sanitarium? That tells you how bad things had to be. It breaks my heart.”

I knew my eyes were wide. “Where did you learn about that?”

“I read an article about it some time ago. Some things you just never forget.”

“You’re right.”

“What about the photos of the little kids?”

“That was an orphanage.”

“Oh, that’s sad.”

I stared down into my plate, thinking back to one kid in particular who still had a little piece of my heart.

“There was this one little boy. His name was Daniel. He was only five. He had mitochondrial disease.”

“I’ve heard of that. What is it exactly?”

“It’s an inherited condition that affects various parts of the body, like the cells of the brain, nerves, muscles, kidneys, heart. His speech was impaired, and he was confined to a wheelchair. For some reason, he really took to me, kept reaching for me during the week we were there. The first time I met him, I was snacking on a clementine. He grabbed it from me and started eating it. The woman at the orphanage said he never did stuff like that, never interacted so easily with someone. My connection to him was strange but profound. I ended up bringing him clementines every day. I really wished I could have done something more for him.”

“Like taken him home?”

“It crossed my mind, believe it or not. I never stopped thinking about him—to the point that I contacted the orphanage a year later.”

“What happened?”

It was hard to talk about. “They had closed down. I have no idea where any of those kids are now. It haunts me to this day.”

“Oh no. What were you planning to do…when you called them?”

“I don’t know. I honestly can’t tell you. I just wanted to make sure he was okay—maybe find out how I could help him financially. I made some calls, but no one could tell me what happened to the kids who were there.”

“That’s scary, but you know, the fact that you were still thinking about him after you left and wanted to help speaks to your character.”

It had been a long time since anyone looked at me with admiration in their eyes. If only I deserved it.

Over the next half-hour, Heather listened as I told her more stories from my travels. She was more interested in the people I’d met along the way than the places I’d visited, which I found to be telling about the kind of person she was.

As a cool summer breeze came in from the lake, Heather’s mother appeared at the sliding door.

Heather took notice and said, “Mom, come join us.”

“No. I just came out to take my pill. I’m going back to my room.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Chadwick,” I said.

“Call me Alice.”

I got up and extended my hand. “Noah Cavallari.”

She took it. “I guess this is my opportunity to thank you for your help.”

As I sat back down, I said, “No thanks needed. Like I told Heather, I actually enjoy physical labor.”

“My daughter insists that you have no ulterior motive, but I’m not entirely sure I believe that.”