You watched a cartoon once where Superman held out his hand like a traffic cop and stopped a handful of bullets with his palm. You live in a house with so many guns that you wear your pajamas all the time, the red S big as a train, just in case. You say that to mommy every time she dresses you: “Just in case.” And she, being a loving mother - you’re sure that’s the only kind - takes the PJs off the hangar and squeezes your body into them. They always smell like the backyard, like dandelions.

In the portrait, your mommy and daddy hold guns, long and smooth like baseball bats. They smile. In the portrait, your mommy stands in the back, taller than everyone else for once, and you think she enjoys that. The cherry wood walls of the cabin seem to pulse with every flash of the camera, groan with every “say cheese.”

In the portrait, you hold out your hand, palm forward. Just in case.