The envelope contained photographs from the disposable cameras. Robert had kept duplicates and written the photographer's name on each back. My daughters had captured elbows, ceiling vents, and their grandfather asleep with a towel over his face. Martin's photograph showed me at the bottom of the smallest slide, laughing with both hands over my nose. He had taken it before our apology in the lobby.

I asked why he had never shown me. Martin said he feared the photograph would look like evidence offered in his defense. He was right to wait. Intent did not cancel harm, and one candid image did not prove he had always seen me generously. Still, I liked the woman in the photograph. Her joy was not flattering or composed. It was simply visible.

We spent the evening in the water park. I wore the same blue suit, now faded at the seams. Martin rode the large slide alone because I disliked the steep drop. Saying no felt as important as saying yes had the first time. We met in the lazy river, where he asked before taking a picture. I declined, and he put the phone away.

Back in the room, I repaired my old suitcase zipper with a sewing kit from the front desk. The teeth aligned except for one bent section near the corner. I left the yellow luggage tag attached to the handle. Martin fell asleep while I sorted the photographs into two envelopes: ones I wanted framed and ones that belonged only to us. Beneath the final stack was a picture no one had labeled, taken after the last call at Gate Twelve. I held it near the lamp, trying to identify the angle. The gate window looked black while my suitcase waited below, alone beneath the harsh terminal lights.