The rain came down in torrents all night and by morning Mill Run, the small river in front of my cabin, swells its banks full of muddy water, sticks and jetsam. The day opens slowly with coffee, a wander along the creek for me and my dog, Simba, then the long bumpy ride down dirt roads to Huttonsville. 

Driving around the back streets, I pull up along side a run-down apartment building where two boys are chasing after a toddler wearing only diapers. A young woman appears in the entrance way hands on her hips.

“Hello! Can I take photos of the kids?” I ask.

“Sure, but they aren’t dressed yet.” 

“No problem,” I say and cluster them all in the doorway where a dark stairway leads upwards to more apartments. 

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Brandy.”  

Thin and lanky with straggly long hair, Brandy’s most distinctive feature is a birthmark the size of a peach pit above her right lip. She gazes at me straight on and makes no attempt to hide the large blemish. She appears delighted that I have interrupted her uneventful afternoon. 

“Wow, you live in Washington, DC? That sounds way more exciting than Huttonsville!” 

There’s something about Brandy—for a busy mom with three kids she seems like a kid herself just barely suppressing her sense of mischief and delight. I take a liking to her instantly.

We arrange the kids for photos with smiles, then without smiles. The youngest, the diapered one, is a wee boy about two with a gold thatch of hair and a look of alarm. The two others are identical twins, it turns out. They seem somewhat distracted and make strange faces for their portraits.