In the photograph, the bullet is frozen two feet from her head. There is still time to duck, though by her expression it is obvious that she is oblivious to the bullet’s nearness; the photographer could tell you that it was because she was watching the fire-eater, there in the bus terminal in Guatemala City, amid the rising yellow dust, the blare of air horns. Her mouth is curling upward already.

Because the sun glared hard that day, because the photographer was so close when he took the picture, and because he is that talented, the bullet is sharp and clear, blurred only around the edges. A forensics expert could tell you where the casing was cast: eastern Poland, circa 1984. He could tell you no more, but we know that it did not pass through customs in the usual manner. Money changed hands that was not registered. Such things happen.

We may now take your questions. How did the bullet cross the world? How did she, a Canadian tourist, come to be in its path? How will you know the truth when you see it?