One winter afternoon, before it all went to shit, I took a photograph of Jane on a sidewalk at sunset. I framed her on the left third, letting traffic work the depth behind her. I bent my knees to get a low-angle, made her look tall, imposing, dark hair wild in the wind. I was about to take the photo when a giant white box-truck passed along-side us. For a second, sunbeams bounced off the truck’s aluminum siding and reflected a warm fill-light against Jane’s cheek. She gleamed, pale face glowing like a starlet, all gold and amber. I had my finger on the button, but I hesitated, and as soon as I realized how perfect the light had been, the truck was gone.