He was born eight pounds two ounces. The labor had been a breeze, even Stephanie said so. By the time they’d reached the hospital Jacob was practically on his way out already. The picture James took in the hospital shows them all together on the bed, tired and happy, Jacob wrapped up in the blanket, barely visible.
          For Jacob’s first birthday James made a point of getting a better shot of his boy’s face. He was standing between his mother’s knees, Steph holding his arms above his head, steadying him. The second birthday: Jacob with other tiny cousins at his birthday party. The third: Jacob sleeping, as Stephanie said, angelic. The fourth: Jacob pretending to be Batman. Of course there were other photos, many others, but by this time there was a ritual to it, and a special book that all the birthday photos went in. James began to get artistic: He planned outfits and poses, booked trips to Disneyworld and such places to obtain the perfect birthday backdrop.
          On Jacob’s fourteenth birthday they had a terrible fight. Jacob left to spend the night with Stephanie’s mother. But still, at five minutes to midnight, Jacob sent a selfie to James’ phone. James printed it out and into the book it went.
          Two years later, the divorce. Jacob went with Stephanie, it was best for everybody. James spent as much time with his son as he could, always on his birthday when he could manage it. (Steph didn’t object: she knew it was a thing they shared.) And when that couldn’t happen, the selfies still came: Jacob with friends, with his mom touring colleges, suspiciously stoned-seeming on a quad.
          Jacob joined the Marines. His mother blew her top. James objected too: their mutual opinion seemed like it might actually drive them together again for a while, but the objection cooled and after three years of photos from Afghanistan and one from Germany, they were vastly relieved and still comfortably apart.
          One birthday photo the next year: the three of them together! The following year: Jacob and his fiancee. Fiancee! yelled Stephanie, over the phone. I know! he replied. He printed the photo out on the home printer, adding a heart-shaped border he found on Shutterstock.
          Jacob and Ashley died that night, when Jacob crossed the highway line after one too many celebratory shots. Stephanie and James both fell apart, separately. They hardly spoke again.
          One year later, a terrible prank: A message from Jacob’s old number, which James had stopped paying for ten months ago. No text, just a black photo with some sort of pale smears. James replied with an angry who is this, but there was no response for a year, when another photo arrived: nearly the same, but with the smears in different places. He didn’t delete it, and just as he had done the year before, he printed it out and added it to the book, which in the years to come would contain more black pages than any other sort.
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