PART 1: The Face in the Photograph
My hands trembled as I opened the envelope.
Inside lay an old black-and-white photograph. Two young Marines in jungle fatigues, their arms draped over each other’s shoulders, squinting against the sun. Somewhere hot, with palm trees behind them.
One of them was a young Cyrus Lambert.
The other had my nose. My chin. My crooked smile.
I’d known that face my entire life. It was the only photo I owned of my father.
On the back, in faded ink: “Cy and Jimmy. Hue City. Jan. 1968.”
