My best friend of 37 years suddenly asked me to take one LAST photo together during our beach trip. When I asked why she said “last,” she gave me an unsettling smile and whispered, “Because tomorrow, you’re going to find out who I really am… and you may never want to see me again.”

So we did. We crouched down on either side of Russell’s headstone, two forty-four-year-old women with puffy eyes and the same dark hair and the same laugh, and I held my phone out at arm’s length.

Just before I pressed the button, Paige hooked her crooked little finger through mine.

The picture came out blurry. Paige’s eyes are half closed. My hair is in my face.

It’s my favorite photo in the whole world.

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