He handed it to me.
I looked down.
And my breath caught.
The little girl in the photograph was me.
I was about eight years old.
I was standing beside the same man who was now sitting inside the ice cream truck.
And in my hand was a strawberry shortcake bar.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
I turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
Five words.
Words written in my late mother’s handwriting.
“Keep an eye on her.”
My hands began to tremble.
I looked at the man.
“Who are you?”
He took off his baseball cap.
“My name is Ben.”
Then he paused.
“I knew your brother.”
My heart seemed to stop.
“Adam?”
Ben nodded.
“Adam was my best friend.”
I hadn’t heard that name spoken by a stranger in years.
Adam was my older brother.
He had died in a car accident when I was nine.
