Claire examined the scattered photos with her back turned away from the television.

“It’s your turn to pick one,” she offered, “Dredge up the past.”

“Alright,” I said, taking my time looking for just the right piece to analyze. I settled on one that had ignited a spark of interest in me ever since I swiped it from the bottom of a bin of vinyl records in a run down second hand shop last Thursday.

The photo was of a small boy and his dog, both squatted down among the ashen rubbish of a busy city street scene. The boy must have moved when the photo was taken, because his face was a blur of motion. The terrier, however, stared back clearly, his black eyes piercing through the paper.

I handed the photo to Claire who immediately turned it over.

“How sad,” she said, “The little boy’s name is smudged. It’s like his identity has been erased.”

“I like to believe his name is Jack,” I offered.

“Perfect,” Claire said.

“Jack and Soldier: Butte, MT, 1943,” Claire said reading the writing out loud.