He’s unsure about the wisdom of his words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. Rachel looks at him, as if measuring the question.

“Yes.” She reaches into her bag. “Why?” She holds the card out toward him. He knows that her fingers won’t release until he has given her an answer.

“I’m traveling a lot. I’m seeing a lot of faces.”

Her fingers let go. She nods as if his answer makes sufficient sense. “Of course.”

It is a much younger man in the photograph. He would like to compare this image side by side with the one of Daniel East. There is some similarity around the eyes. He is not sure that it is enough, though. He looks up at Rachel. It’s not enough.

“Thank you.” He hands her the photograph back and watches as she smiles at the young man’s face. Her left hand abstractedly plucks at daisies.

“I’m the one who should be saying thank you.”

They walk on and he photographs the country below. Where within that stretching plain is Captain Albert Stewart? Will he ever surface and point out landmarks for his sister? Will his features ever turn up on a stranger’s photographic film? A couple are picnicking in the shade of one of the shell holes. At first he is careful to keep them out of his shot, but then he finds his lens focusing in on them. The girl is laughing as the man gently places a daisy chain around her neck.

“I would rather see him in a shell hole with another woman than not ever see him again at all.”

He turns to Rachel. She is shielding the sun from her eyes with her hand. Are there tears in the shadow of her hand?

“Sometimes when I wake up he’s breathing at my side. Just for a moment. I hear his footsteps on the floor above. I smell his cigarette when I walk into a room. I just can’t believe that I’ll never see him again.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“I used to smell his shirt collars, you know. That’s stupid, isn’t it? I’ve never admitted that to anyone before. I could breathe him in, though—bring him close. But now he’s fading. Now he’s barely there.”

Harry thinks about a pair of pale eyes caught on his camera film and imagines them fading. He wants to give that news to her, wants to bring David close, but he’s not certain that he can hand her that fragile hope.

“Oh, I nearly forgot—your handkerchief. I had it laundered.”

He looks down at Francis’s embroidered initials.

“Your journey hasn’t crossed with your sister-in-law’s?”

“No.”

“You should try to contact her.”

“It’s been four weeks since I received her postcard. I don’t know where she is. She might be at home again by now.”