He had me watch as he logged the negatives into a database: the number of strips, the number of frames, my name with the date and time I’d brought them in. “Okay? We have cafeteria, we have park, make yourselves comfortable. Maybe one hour, maybe two.”

I was too restless to sit in their lunchroom. Karen came outside with me but stopped at a bench to make calls of her own while I walked around the perimeter of a little lake. The Canada geese, who’ve become the scourge of the northern United States, were out in force, drilling peg holes in the ground and leaving unappetizing deposits behind them. I skirted the soiled path and went into a small woods. I kept trying not to look at my watch, but I couldn’t bear walking too far from the Cheviot building.

Finally, a little after one, Theo came to find us, beaming like an obstetrician who’s about to announce a normal delivery. “You can come now. I have made many shots, cropped, shaded. You see what you can see.”

There had been twenty-four black-and-white negatives in the Bible, but Theo had multiplied them into over a hundred prints, each with several different exposures, some cropped to focus on individual faces. Theo had clipped most to light tables around a conference table. Some were blown up and attached to the walls.

“That’s Lamont, with Johnny Merton,” I murmured to Karen, as we started with the first picture on the first negative, which showed three black youths, arms linked across one another’s shoulders, wearing the berets that wannabe revolutionaries used to sport. “You can see Johnny’s tattoos. I’m guessing Steve Sawyer is the third man. I’ve never seen a picture of him when he was young.”

Their faces were solemn but joyful, getting ready for a big adventure. Lamont didn’t appear in any of the other pictures. It had been his camera, after all. He had several shots from the beginning of the march, including one of Martin Luther King, Jr., at the front and Johnny nearby.

“That might be a collector’s item,” I whispered to Karen. “When this is all over, Miss Ella might sell it, get a little comfort for herself.”

We moved on to look at Harmony Newsome’s ardent young face. She was arm in arm with a solemn-eyed nun.

“Frankie,” Karen murmured.

Lamont had also photographed rictuses of hate in the crowd. He’d gotten one of the vilest of the racist signs—BURN THEM LIKE THEY DID THE JEWS—that littered the park, and he’d caught a can of pop just as it exploded in a cop’s face. Onlookers, their faces indistinct, seemed to be cheering.