‘I needed change,’ she explains, letting go of my hand to reach into the pocket of her coat. She takes out some pound coins and inserts them into the slot then grabs my hand again and pulls me inside. I sit beside her on the bench and as we wait for the flash to go off, I suddenly feel very safe.

Like nothing can happen to us here.

The first flash catches us by surprise, but we recover quickly, doing a series of silly poses that concludes with Poppy grabbing me so suddenly, her hands on my face, that I laugh into her open mouth as she kisses me. It makes her laugh too and we stay like that for a few moments, laughing and kissing. It feels so real and for the first time since I found her in the cemetery, Poppy isn’t this fleeting, fragile thing. A bird that will fly away if I don’t hold on to her with both hands. She’s there – right there – warm and solid and utterly fearless, like nothing can break her. And if we can just stay here, I think, right here in this photo booth, nothing ever will.

But we can’t, I know, so I pull the curtain back, taking her hand and leading her out, the pair of us giggling as we wait for the photos to be printed. When they are, she snatches them out of the slot, but her face falls when she sees them. I take the square of glossy paper from her, wondering what’s wrong – if they didn’t come out or I’ve ruined them by pulling an ugly face – but then I see.

It’s not me.

It is, but it’s not the me that she can see now, it’s the me she looked past outside the Dome.

She doesn’t look like her, either, her red hair tamed in black and white, losing a little of its magic.

So we leave the photos there, tucking them among the other ones people left behind that are stuck to the front of the booth. I take her hand and we walk out in silence, no longer amused by the taxidermy crow.