[ WP ] You find a Polaroid camera which prints pictures that are from one week in the future .

Buried in the recesses of grandpa's attic were a stack of old instant photographs of remarkable composition and clarity. Egypt, Libya, Algeria. France, Belgium, Germany. Another bundle went to the Pacific. Marshall Islands, Midway, Guam, Iwo Jima. Some of the images showed little more than washed out and black and white landscapes and waves. Others were surreal: Storming a hill, a deathly black hail of bullets caught mid-trajectory. Smudged notes written with grease pencil noted places and times, initials over blurred heads, arrows pointing to possible objectives and points of ingress and egress. It looked less like grandpa was commenting on what happened, and more like he was figuring out what was happening. That may have made sense were he an intelligence officer. He was n't. He was an enlisted Marine Corps. grunt, whose constant insubordination, judging by a folder of onion-skinned fitreps inscribed with UCMJ violations, kept him on the front lines. 
 
 Near his stash of wartime records and the dusty and enigmatic photographs rested a black wooden box. Chips and gouges showed it to be painted over many times, and a white stencil read: Commando Drawers. That was grandpa's idea of joke. As kids we'd crawl around the attic, poking and prodding through every hidden and mysterious treasure, though could never manage our way into this one box. Even now, as an adult, with readily available lock pick tools, that damned lock failed to give way. Although I wondered if it had been intentionally disabled, when pressed, such as we did last Christmas, grandpa would somehow manage to climb into the attic, gimpy leg and all, wrest that box from it's corner, and open it to show us that it contained exactly what the label said: Commando Drawers. Which is to say, nothing. Still, we never believed him. Why lock an empty box? And, how did he open it without any sign of a key? 
 
 Grandpa lived a long and productive life right into his mid-nineties. In the end, it was n't anything major that pushed him over the edge but a couple grapes. Apparently, he was being his usual pervert with the nursing staff, wrapped two grapes in a napkin, pushed them together to make fruity cleavage, named them Nurse Darla, who, I recall, was well endowed, and laughed himself right into a heart attack. Good by, grandpa. 
 
 Now that he was gone, and though bereaved, I found an eery solace in determining myself to open that box. I picked up the rusty e-tool, unfolded it, and beat the hell out of box. First the lock, then the hinges, then the wood itself. Again and again I wailed until a gap formed beneath the lid. I jammed the shovel blade in and pushed down until the wood splintered from the hinges and broke free. 
 
 Inside, just as the label said: Commando Drawers. Nothing. Except, in the scant light, I saw what should have been obvious all along: The lock was n't a lock at all, it was a hinge, and what looked like hinges were hidden and quite simple locks. Along the bottom was a piece of balsa wood creating a false bottom. I pried it up and found a brown leather case. Stamped in the leather read these words: Edwin Land, Model 95 Prototype 7, followed by a string of smaller letters. I squinted: US Army Corps. - Oak Ridge - 1942. 
 
 I dropped the case at once, and Marty McFly's voice popped in my head. Is this sucker nuclear? 
 
 Then, I chastised myself for jumping to conclusions. Of course not. Maybe it was just meant to take pictures of nuclear explosions. Up close. And - I recoiled again. It could have been given healthy doses of radiation. I then recalled the story about Kodak predicting the atomic testing from damage to their film because the packing materials came from locations near atomic testing. Yet the photos grandpa took were fine. Maybe then it's a camera designed to withstand elevated radiation. That would be pretty cool. 
 
 I picked up the case again, unsnapped the leather fold, and gingerly slid the brittle plastic device. Behind the camera I found a few more photos, and these appeared more recent, also scribbled over in pen. A number at the top indicated one of the photos was 99 of 100, and it was taken eight days ago, early in the morning, by someone standing in the entryway to the dining room. The picture showed the flowers and condolence cards arranged on the table. 
 
 What? I sucked air and exhaled deeply. Mom did n't arrange that until last night. 
 
 Still holding the camera and the picture, I scrambled down from the attic and took the flight of stairs to the first floor in only two steps. I held up the picture with the dining room table behind it and compared the two. Identical. One of grandpa's jokes, obviously. But why? 
 
 Well, there was an easy way to prove that. I unfolded the camera, fussed with the baffle, and took a picture of the table. Then, I had to wait for it to develop, all the while wondering if anything was even happening, until eventually the edge of the film role poked out and I ripped it free. 
 
 Congratulations Dave, the banner read. I blinked and looked up where no such sign hung. On either side of my name were baby rattles and binkies. Oh that's just plain mean, grandpa. I tried to take another picture, but apparently the camera was out of film. 
 
 I returned to the attic on a quest for more film, but none was to be found. Fine, there must be some place to find instant film for this model. Or, apparently, not. It requires a conversion kit to SR-70, and even I was n't entirely convinced that would work. 
 
 Well, it must be a joke. Carla must have told grandpa and he arranged all of this. I called her up to let her know she got me with the joke. She played dumb. What was I talking about? She was n't... oh, she had better not be... and she hung up right then and there. 
 
 I stood there, dumbfounded, looking between last week's picture, the dining room, and the new picture, until my mother and sister returned to the house. My mother pursed her lips, closed her eyes, and then slowly walked over to me and gave me a hug. Expecting a few words about her father's passing, she instead simply said: Be careful with that. The Department of Defense keeps asking about it. 

