As Hiro drove to the house, I watched the sky, feeling as if I were racing the sun. The wind whipped at my hair and face through the jagged windows. But all I could think of was the light.

I ran first up to my room, where I grabbed the camera, then back out to where Hiro stood waiting next to the fence. A cold drop of rain fell on the tip of my nose. Hiro blinked as a drop hit him, too. “We should run,” he said.

“I’m afraid of breaking it.” I held up the Leica.

“I’ll take it,” Hiro said, and together we jogged to the pond.

At the pond’s edge, Hiro took the camera out of its case and—with a gentleness that made me shiver—hung its strap around my neck. “Good luck, Miss Sakamoto.” With his hair swept out of his face, his eyes were even clearer. They locked on mine, and for a second I forgot the light.

Hiro knelt down and linked his hands together. “Step on.”

I let him boost me, feeling self-conscious. But with a few more scrambling steps, I was able to throw my leg over the branch I’d chosen. I scooted out over the pond as the rain began falling in earnest.

“Is your photo ruined?” Hiro called from below.

I sighed. The reflection I’d imagined was gone—the rain had robbed the pond of its glassiness. I held the camera up to my eye, without much expectation.

But what I saw through the viewfinder wasn’t what I’d expected. Instead of ruining the shot, the rain gave it texture. In the unusual light, each drop sent out rings of shine and shadow. The texture became the subject of the photo, and the door, with its painted Get Out, seemed small and insignificant. As it should be.

“It’s even better than I hoped.”

Hiro beamed. Rain streamed over his smooth brown face, and something caught in my chest.

I gulped and set up the shot.

The light was so perfect that even as I struggled with a whirlpool of feelings, I took several more photographs on the way home. I took one of the orchard, its regimented rows of trunks growing into chaotic arms, another of the peeling barn, its dark squareness in contrast to the winter-muted growth around it. I took one of Okaasan’s persimmon tree, of the few bright orange bulbs still clinging to its uppermost branches. And with Hiro’s permission, I took a picture of his truck, its knife-edged shards of window glittering in the changing light.

Hiro didn’t hover as I worked, but he stayed nearby, sometimes watching, silently trying to see what I saw in the subjects, other times strolling a few rows away from me, quietly engaged in his own thoughts.

When he was looking in the other direction, toward the Omuras’, I pointed my camera, hurriedly fumbling with the lens till he came into focus. With his hands in his pockets and a knee slightly bent, there was an ease to Hiro’s posture. The texture of his sweater contrasted with his smooth skin, and he looked slightly upward, so the light hit his face, illuminating the openness in his expression. When his eyes landed on me, I took the shot.

I blushed, and Hiro’s eyes lingered on me for a moment, but he didn’t say anything.

“Thanks for coming with me,” I told Hiro when we got to the fence.

“Thanks for inviting me.” Hiro folded his arms. “I liked seeing you work. I can tell you’re really good.”

A cool draft ruffled my already wind-mussed hair. I couldn’t meet Hiro’s eyes. For me something had shifted, and the thought of him walking me to the door now scared me—it could mean more somehow.

But he didn’t offer. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” I could tell he was looking into my face, but I couldn’t look up to read his expression.

I scrambled over the fence, not sure if I was relieved or disappointed.

“Where have you been?” Dad demanded. I had only just stepped inside. Dad stood in the kitchen doorway, glowering as I shrugged off my book bag, hiding the Leica in my coat.

I hung my wet things on a peg. “I helped Hiro write some letters,” I said, fussing with my tangled hair. I didn’t add that I’d been there since lunch.

“You should have called,” Dad said, stomping out of the room. His angry footsteps echoed through the entry, and his door slammed shut.

The clock in the parlor read quarter to six. Time had gotten away from me. “Sorry.”

At the stove, Kiki stirred a thick curry.

“Smells good,” I said.

“Mm.”

“You okay?” I asked.

Kiki shrugged and kept stirring.

“Sorry I was late—thanks for covering supper.” It wasn’t actually my turn to cook—and there were plenty of leftovers in the icebox.

Kiki stared into the bubbling curry. “You were with Hiro?” Her voice was too casual.

I nodded.

“Just Hiro?” Her hand froze, mid-stir.

I hesitated. Could Kiki sense my jumbled feelings? “He … the store was closed.”

Kiki set the spoon on its rest. She picked up two of Okaasan’s thick hot pads.

“I just helped him write letters to congressmen.” I couldn’t tell her about our photo-taking adventure. It felt … private.

Kiki dropped the pot onto the wood cooling board. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Sam,” she said, in a quiet, measured voice. “I’m not interested in Hiro. Not anymore.”

“No?” I swallowed. The word had come out disbelieving—and maybe a little hopeful?

Kiki gave me a hard look. “You know what it was that got me over him?” She leaned toward me. “I realized that dating a Japanese boy, right now, was social suicide.”

I stared. With everything that had happened, how could she still worry about this stuff? “Are you saying you want to date a white boy? Johnny?”

“Date him? I don’t know. But I can focus my energies on relationships that will help me instead of … taking other people’s castoffs.” She arched an eyebrow at me.

“That’s not what I’m doing.” I blushed. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Right. Just like Charlie’s not doing anything.” Her sharp laugh sounded like barking. My jaw tensed—she didn’t know that I knew about Jean. And I wasn’t going to tell her.

Taking other people’s castoffs. Did she really think that? I wasn’t trying to do anything except help.

And then Hiro’s face, blazing with determination, came to my mind. He was so … good. So brave.

My whole body felt hot as I realized how it must look to Kiki. Of course she’d think I liked him. Who wouldn’t like a boy like him? She probably thought I didn’t have a chance.

And she was right, I thought, remembering how he’d stopped at the fence … Still, my stomach fluttered as I thought of the moment we’d shared in the rain.