This is the last photo I took of her before she got away, the woman tells me. All the while the woman has her lips curled slightly in a half smile and it reminds of me of those surveys where they show a picture of a person smiling and ask, ‘Is that smile real or fake?’ A researcher in my college’s Psychology department once paid me $30 for taking that exact survey — I answered correctly 30 out of 30 times. (Those were the days when I signed up for as many “paid studies” as possible, needing the cash for my nightly outings.) But right now, I’m not sure. The woman looks at me and I see that her eyes are bloodshot and dry. She says, isn’t she beautiful in this photo? I want to tell her that her daughter is safe and probably just in the next town over, drinking coffee and laughing with strangers. But I can’t, because I know that this, at least, isn’t real.