That first time, I was not drunk, but did not want to ruin the story we were telling ourselves. We had visited a death camp, where I performed my trauma, as was expected. That evening, I sipped my beer and tasted adulthood (I did not like it), then acted strangely on the way home, as I thought I should. I was on the brink of my future, and felt I had already lived so much; yet my photographs show a child, which is what I was to the adult who bought me my half-pint, knowing it would not harm me.