Peter Frewton from Aberdeen, New Jersey, carried only one picture in his wallet at all times. It was of his wife Michelle, one that he had taken of her two years earlier late in summer. In it she was wearing navy blue shorts, a white t-shirt and her white sneakers. Peter looked at the picture hard. He remembered how he had been sweating badly that day, taking that picture in the heat of August. Michelle was sitting in the sun on the patio in the backyard of their Aberdeen, New Jersey home, grinning up at him, looking into the camera. She was squinting up, bright brown eyes made brighter in the sun, and she was grinning as wide as he'd ever seen her grin, Peter believed. Her long legs were bent up underneath her; she was hugging them to her chest and just grinning. Grinning like the day they were married, grinning like it was the happiest moment of her life, like she hadn't had a reason to grin at all until then, sitting in the sun in their backyard in her blue shorts and white sneakers.

Peter turned off the engine of the idling Sable and pulled the picture out of his wallet. He sat in the cold driver's seat and looked at it. He knew the lines by heart; he had stared at it so often. He knew the curve of her mouth, her small dimples and the way her long brown hair fell over her left shoulder as she tipped her head to that side and just grinned. He loved the picture. He loved the woman in the picture.

Still clutching it in his hand, Peter left the car and walked into the hospital and through halls that were too yellow until he reached where they had told him to go. At the door, he swallowed thickly and placed his hand on the knob. He wasn't suprised to see it was shaking. He looked at the black and white sign and his eyesflew over the one word there. "Morgue." Peter blinked once.

When he entered the cold, white room, Michelle was in front of him on a table. And when he looked at the sunny picture in his hand, she was still grinning.