Miles dragged over a portrait stool for himself, as Mom excused herself to the other part of the house to take care of a few things. Circa felt sure that meant another long nap lying between heaps of laundry.

“Sorry to be so weird when Nat was here,” said Circa as Miles settled in beside her at the desk. “But this is something nobody has seen except for me and Dad and Mom, because Dad made me promise to keep it just an us thing. And the thing is, even though you’re not family, well, you sure do—”

Circa paused. “I guess after all that yucky feeling from our visit,” she said, “I thought you might need at least a little something to smile about.”

Circa leaned across the desk and slid out an old, familiar folder. Then she laid it on top of her crisscrossed legs and slowly opened it up. For a second, it felt as though she was handing over the key to the Monroe family treasure chest, so much so that Circa considered making an excuse and stuffing the folder right back into its spot. She started to close the folder up, but Miles quickly threw his hand out to stop her.

“Whoa. What’s that?” he said.

Circa let the folder fall back open across her lap and revealed the topmost picture in the stack.

“This…” she said, taking a delighted glance at the photo before gently handing it over to Miles. “This is one of my favorites.”

Miles studied the photo for a moment. It was an old gray image of a rickety porch, with a little girl sitting there, smiling peacefully at her own feet. Watching from every available hiding place in the house behind her were three furry koala bears. Miles read aloud the words scribbled beneath.

“‘Meet Little Tish, who was carefully looked after by a skilled, if smelly, trio of nannies. There was Audrey to sing her to sleep at night, Reuben to make her toast, and Gus to keep her from falling into the lobster pit. All three would work tirelessly for years to make sure Tish was completely koala-fied for the challenges of adulthood, and one day she would greatly appreciate their efforts. (But on this particular Wednesday, she was far too captivated by her new chunky white shoes to notice.)’”

Miles just sat there for a moment studying the piece of paper in his hands. Circa couldn’t stand the suspense.

“Sorry,” she said, “I guess it was silly of me to think this would help. It’s just that these always seem to make me feel better, no matter what.”

Circa reached out to take the picture back from him, but Miles wouldn’t let her. Instead, he tightened his grip on the page. And he smiled.

“What is this?” he said.

“They’re called the Shopt,” Circa explained timidly. “Like as in, Photoshopped, on my dad’s photo editing program.”

“You mean this is all fake?”

“Only some of it,” said Circa. “The good parts. He took them from his other photos, or sometimes he just drew them right in. You can’t even tell what’s not real, can you?” she said proudly. “My dad was the best at that.”

“Cool,” said Miles, inspecting the photo superclose. “And he made up the story too?”

Circa nodded and picked up the next Shopt picture. Miles grabbed it and studied it intently. It was actually a strip of pictures from a photo booth. Each shot showed a snaggletoothed girl and a disturbingly huge plastic doll with pigtails crowding the frame.

Miles read its story aloud too.

“‘Eager to show off her new shirt, Potty Doll pitched an absolute fit to be allowed into the photo booth. She’d never been good at personal space, and this was beginning to wear thin on her school friends. Especially when she’d shout ‘I a big kid! I go pee pee!’ at the most inopportune times.’”

Miles peered over the top of the page at Circa for a moment. And then, just like that, he began to laugh. Circa felt a tremendous satisfaction at the sun she’d coaxed from behind his clouds. She started to shuffle through the stack of Shopt photos to pick out other personal favorites for Miles, but he stopped her from it, insisting on seeing them all in order so that he wouldn’t miss any. One by one, they studied each of the Shopt pictures, taking turns reading the stories out loud. Before they knew it, they’d moved to the studio floor and shuffled through so many Shopt pics, dozens of images were spread out in front of them in a black-and-white, sepia, and full-color display of imagination across the carpet.

“My dad said that some of these had some hints of truth to them,” Circa said. “Like this one here, with the tuba going over the waterfall. He told me that once, someone found a chunk of brass at the water’s edge. Or this one that has the classroom with all the candy vines growing, he said that he remembered once hearing about a town in Alabama where the kids got to stay home from school while they pruned the walls.”

“No way,” said Miles. “Was he being serious?”

Circa shrugged. “I thought so,” she said.

“Crazy,” said Miles as they hit the halfway point in the collection. “I kind of wish this stack would go on and on.”

Time seemed to fly by as the two of them read on about the octopus that crashed a wedding, the fisherman who caught a disco ball, a racehorse that wore roller skates, and much more. As they did, Circa noticed that the Shopt seemed to have the very same effect on Miles that it did on her. Like at the end of the afternoon, they’d both choose to be tucked back into the folder with the pictures if they could.

“Check this out,” said Circa, pulling a fresh one from the dwindling stack. The photo was of a gardener posing proudly next to a bush blooming with cartoon talk bubbles that said Kapow! The story under it was about how she’d snuck her husband’s old comic books into the compost pile.

“This one’s always been my mom’s favorite,” said Circa. “She says she wishes she had a Kapow! plant to pluck some bravery off of every now and then.”

“And speaking of that brave lady,” Mom interrupted from behind, spooking Circa and Miles from their trance. Not only was Mom awake, but she carried a tray full of supper, and boy did it look good. She set the tray on the floor and off-loaded two glasses of milk, two not-paper plates full of steaming pot roast and black-eyed peas, and two oatmeal cream pies already out of the plastic.

“Thanks, Mom,” said Circa.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Miles.

“Thank the Boones,” said Mom. “I’m just handy with the microwave is all.”

But Circa knew that just being able to assemble a meal was a small victory for her mother. As Mom got up to leave with the empty tray, Circa could see her smiling at the gardener and the prized Kapow! bush. And it didn’t even look like a fake “Sunny Backdrop” smile.

“Be sure not to spill milk on that one,” Mom said as she left the studio.

The kids wolfed down their supper in no time and resumed the storytelling. As they neared the bottom of the stack, Circa recognized the jutted-out corner of a very familiar picture. It was the Shopt version of the Linholt Reunion photo, and it set off alarm bells in Circa’s head. She didn’t want Miles to see that one, knowing that it would be such a bummer for him. And she certainly didn’t want to have to tell Miles about how Dad never got to put a story to it. So, while Miles was reading the next-to-the-next-to-the-last story, Circa slid out the Linholt one and twisted around to tuck it away somewhere. As she did, she snuck another good look at that baby.

And that’s when a notion so impossible, yet so suddenly inescapable, began to take shape in Circa’s brain. Her mind raced in a dozen directions as she assembled the growing pile of clues. Miles’s crinkle, his snoring, the way he had defended her, his crooked smile, the déjà-vu feeling she’d had the first moment she laid eyes on him. The Linholt Reunion, Miles’s blank, start-fresh memory. The Shopt photo of a reunion that happened thirteen years ago. That baby.

“This one’s hilarious,” said Miles from what seemed like the other end of a tunnel.

“I know,” said Circa, in that slow-motion way a person does when an idea flattens her good. No way, she thought. No way. She looked at Miles. Then she snuck another look at the picture behind her.

“You didn’t even see which one I was talking about,” said Miles, but Circa was oblivious.

Could that baby…No. It can’t be.

No, of course he couldn’t. It was, after all, an impossible thing. Yet for some reason, she couldn’t seem to shake the thought. The what if simply wouldn’t leave her alone.

Circa reached out, pretending to stretch, and slid the reunion photo under the desk.

“So what was up with that one?” asked Miles. “Why didn’t your dad write a story for it?”

Circa cringed at the thought of Miles finding the reunion photo. There was simply no way she could possibly explain the ideas in her head to him right now. Unfortunately, when she scooted closer to him, she realized that he’d discovered something nearly as bad. She’d been so busy trying to hide the reunion picture, she hadn’t even taken notice of the very last picture waiting inside the Shopt file…a folded-up one that Miles had already smoothed open onto the floor in front of him. It was the old World War II soldier picture she’d tried her hand at editing days before. The one she’d added the poor incomplete baby into. Mom must have found it on the floor and put it in the folder.

“My dad didn’t write a story for it because I did that one,” Circa said, both relieved and disgusted. “And I hate it.”

“You hate it? Why?” said Miles.

“Because it’s terrible,” she said. “Look how bad I did that baby, all lumpy and pixelated. I forgot to even put his other arm on.”

Miles laughed. “Well, I agree it’s not as good as the rest,” he said. “But it’s not as bad as you think.”

There he went with that Dad way of encouraging, thought Circa. “Thanks,” she said. “Even though you’re wrong.”

Miles looked at the picture again. “So then did you give this one a story?” he said.

“Of course not,” said Circa.

“Don’t you think you’re being unfair?” said Miles. He looked Circa right in the eye, so serious it made her squirm. “I mean, come on, Circa. Doesn’t that lumpy, pixelated baby soldier deserve a story as much as Potty Doll?”

Miles put on that mischievous brow crinkle again, leaving Circa unsure whether to punch him in the arm or laugh. Since his scarred arms had seen enough trouble, she laughed.

“I got you,” he said.

“No, no. You’re exactly right,” said Circa, feeling a rush of silly mischief herself. She picked up the picture and wondered what in the world Dad would have concocted out of the black-and-white disaster before her.

“As a matter of fact,” she began. “I do happen to know this baby’s story.”

“Tell me more,” said Miles.

“You see,” said Circa. “This baby here is one of your ancestors.”

“Really?”

“Yep. He’s your great-uncle Mileage.”

“Great-Uncle Mileage?”

“That’s him.”

For quick inspiration, Circa looked to the snapshot of Dad and Mom and her as a newborn that was taped to the edge of Dad’s monitor. She thought of the kind of adventure Dad might scare up for a pixelated baby in the midst of all those army men.

“Your great-uncle Mileage was the only baby soldier to be in the war,” she continued.

“Oh, yeah?” said Miles. “Seems kind of cruel to let a baby fight in a war.”

“Of course it does,” said Circa. “What I mean is that he was a soldier who spied during the war.”

“Great-Uncle Mileage, the baby spy,” said Miles.

“That’s right,” she said. “The good guys would place him all bundled up on the enemy’s doorstep so that they’d take him in. Then he’d fake being asleep while listening in on their plans and crawl out in the middle of the night to be picked up and debriefed.”

“Debriefed. Ha. Good one,” said Miles. “Meaning he’d have his diaper changed and share the info, right? I’m guessing he could talk too?”

“Nope,” said Circa. “He tapped out messages in Morse code. With his nonmissing arm, of course.”

“Of course,” Miles said. “Great-Uncle Mileage, the one-armed, code-tapping, escape-artist baby spy.”

“I was worried you might not be able to handle it,” said Circa.

“Handle it?” said Miles. “I wish I could meet him. This is the best thing I’ve heard about my past in days.”

“It’s the only thing,” said Circa.

“Exactly,” Miles said.

Circa felt pleased and energized. She’d surprised herself with the ability to make up her own Shopt story. Together, she and Miles gathered up the photos and stacked them back into the Shopt folder. As soon as Miles looked away, Circa snuck the hidden reunion picture from under Dad’s desk and slid it back in as well.

Miles muttered Potty Doll under his breath and laughed.

“Really,” he said. “Thanks for showing me all that stuff. It sounds dumb, I guess, but it kind of helped me to forget.”

“Forget the forgetting?” said Circa.

Miles crinkled again, making Circa’s mind reignite with thoughts of Shopt magic. “Hey, Miles,” she said. “This might be a weird question, but do you remember seeing any crazy stuff that day at the reunion? Like a really giant potato? Or, um, a beaver with a bugle?”

Miles nodded an emphatic yes. Circa’s heart raced. “Yes? You did?”

“No,” said Miles. “I meant yes, that was a weird question.”

“Oh,” said Circa. “Sorry. Never mind then. But, um, did you?”

Miles shook his head.

“You know,” he said, handing Circa the soldier photo, “you really should do some more of that photo work. I think you’re actually pretty decent at it.”

“I don’t know,” said Circa. “I want to, but—”

“But what?” said Miles. “You said he taught you how, right?”

“Yes. He did,” she said, looking to the family photo once more.

Miles looked to see what it was that kept stealing her attention. “So,” he said with a laugh. “Did your dad Photoshop that lumpy baby?”

“No.” Circa laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “That one’s me, you jackola.”

Meet Little Tish, who was carefully looked after by a skilled, if smelly, trio of nannies. There was Audrey to sing her to sleep at night, Reuben to make her toast, and Gus to keep her from falling into the lobster pit. All three would work tirelessly for years to make sure Tish was completely koala-fied for the challenges of adulthood, and one day she would greatly appreciate their efforts. (But on this particular Wednesday, she was far too captivated by her new chunky white shoes to notice.)