Wincing, you rip off a single corner: the edge of the lawn, Blue’s parked car. You pop it into your mouth like a potato chip. The ink numbs in your throat, a sweet poisonous burn, as you realize what you need to do. You rip the precious photograph into strips your molars will understand. The ink is sickening between your teeth. You crunch down anyway, until the photo has evaporated sharp in your throat, until the Blue House is forever a part of you.
