I closed the darkroom door and turned on the red light like we had done in class. Repeated to myself, over and over, the instructions from her computer. Lift the lever. Wind the reel. Wait for the click or feel the tension. Then—pop it out.

The reels were sealed, as they’d been before they went in the camera, and in theory, whatever I’d done wrong would have likely already ruined them, but I wrapped them with another strap of light-tight tape anyway, and placed Jes’s cameras back carefully on her shelf. I collapsed the skeletons of her tripods back into their rolls of carbon fiber and wound the power cords from my fingers to my elbows, closing them with tabs of blue tape. I hung the manual shutters back in their place on her pegboard, and then I realized—it was time for dinner.

*  *  *

First I selected a record—Roy Orbison’s Greatest Hits—and threw a Mission apron on over my dress. It was old white cotton, the kind that has been washed a million times, that you see among your grandmother’s dish towels, and the mud from the lake soaked right through it. I pressed my hands to the top, where my bra was, and the last rivulets of red water ran down my legs and formed a puddle on the linoleum floor.

I stepped over it with satisfaction, then put the biggest pot I could find to boil. In the cabinets and fridge I found venison, canned tomatoes, jarred garlic, olive oil, dried pasta, and spices. After an hour of chopping, slicing, sautéing, and simmering, the sauce was delicious. Another pot went on to boil for the pasta, and I turned my attention to the nearest big round table.

I laid place settings for five, with water and wine glasses, cloth napkins, and nice plates. I stacked my new film canisters, taped shut, undeveloped, in the middle like a centerpiece, for what was almost certainly going to be the world’s worst dinner party, and as I did, the front doors of the Mission swung open.

It happened quickly: Their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they walked two or three feet, and then they stopped. I felt their horror, and gave them a deranged smile in return, wiping my hands on my apron.

I was bedraggled—yes—my white dress covered in mud and the apron soaked through with it—yes—my legs and arms scraped up from the bricks. I was barefoot and blond, the leopard coat hanging from a peg behind me, and I was standing next to a dinner table, looking like the very picture of the dead and drowned Carey Magnolia Logan.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

Tyler was the first to move. He ran to me. Ignoring the mud, he wrapped his arms around my waist, moved his head to look into my eyes. I peeled his arms off me and handed them back to him.