November 25, 2018:

Serious and sophisticated behind the wheel. Or would be, if the shiny new sedan weren't parked in a field of dry brush.

Dark suit with white cuffs, elbow casually out the window, fedora at an angle. He's all dressed up, looking like there's somewhere to go. The car's newly-waxed, all curves and running board, from the Depression era when cars still had running boards. The reverse says it's October, 1941. It's at most eight weeks before Pearl Harbor, eleven weeks before his marriage.

He looks determined. Self-possessed, confident. Grown-up.

Tell me then: where the fuck is his little baby daughter, not yet four-years-old? Granted he's all growed-up and all.