Dogmeat lied his head on Cooper’s lap. Absently, the ghoul would pet it. His eyes closed, and all he could feel was Roosevelt. Dogmeat wasn't quite as soft. A bit bristlier. But for the moment, he could pretend.

The pictures were long since destroyed. Two hundred years weren’t good for photographs.

Nor memories, either. The faces were blurry now. He felt guilty for the faces being blurry. How could he forget those he loved? He supposed it wasn't exactly a surprise. No one was meant to live this long.

But the eyes. Those remained crisp. Janey had her mother's eyes.

The eyes. Those, he could not forget.