His thoughts strayed to the thin photograph that was clutched in his hand, to the old, outdated camera that had taken it. He remembered how his oldest brother, Alexei, had gotten the camera, through a year of pestering his mother and father, how his parents had carefully saved up, a few spare coins clinking into the smooth glass jar each day until , finally, on a date almost two years after they had started saving, they had enough. He could picture the anxious look that his brother had worn as he had walked down to the store, the joy in his face when he walked back with a camera held reverently in his hands, the same joy in his eyes when he took his first picture, the very same picture that Peter held in his hand now, a grainy black-and-white image of Peter leaning over a rusted railing, his boots just barely touching the wooden boards as he stared longingly out to sea. In the picture, you could see the vastness of the ocean, the sails of ships fanning out like blooming flower petals, the rough wood of the dock and the traces of rust on the rail. More than anything, you could see the wistful look on Peter’s face, the way the rail seemed to carry his weight, the way only the tips of his boots touched solid earth. You could see the way his hair blew back in the fierce wind, the way that same wind seemed to almost support his weight along with the rail. Looking down at the picture, Peter could almost feel the ocean breeze blowing back his hair, almost taste the fresh tang of sea salt on his tongue, almost see the shimmering blue water of the wide ocean and the hundreds of ships sailing out to sea. He could almost relive the feeling that he had had at the time, the feeling that told him that he was flying, soaring above the world, that nothing could touch him. Almost.