She snapped a picture of me. Momentarily flash blinded, I rubbed my eyes, pre-mortified, wondering how many of the splotchy blemishes on my face would show on film.

“If you mean one who takes photographs at this moment in time, then yes.” Mercy returned to the stairs, dropped the new photo on one of the treads, and slid her first photo (presumably of the hearse) into her bag. “You two move closer and I get a two-for-one.”

Cayla and Mr. Stephens obeyed without protest or a demand of explanation. They even struck poses: Cayla crossed her arms over her chest and jutted out a hip; Mr. Stephens gripped his chin, miming deep thought, and arched one eyebrow.

“You guys are stars. Art, stay away from your picture. I got your good side.”

I froze in mid-sidle toward the stairs. In my head I was already grinding the picture of me under my heel and saying, Oops, sorry, I was going upstairs to use the bathroom and I’m such a klutz. Instead, I swiveled and turned and pivoted, longing to believe in a good side and display it.

Mercy passed the milky, developing photo to Cayla and asked Mr. Stephens, “Can I hang up my coat somewhere?”

Mr. Stephens directed Mercy to a foyer closet. Cayla shook the exposed negative, impatient for the result.

Mercy said, “No, don’t shake it. You’ll cause the image to separate or form little blobs.” She hung up her coat as she explained that newer, instant film wasn’t wet, didn’t need to dry. Mercy renewed her grip on the camera and re-shouldered her bag. She plucked the snapshot away from Cayla, who held it inches from her face as though inspecting a jewel.

“It’s not done developing yet,” Cayla said.

“That’s okay.” Mercy returned to the base of the stairs, quickly swapping the photo with the shot of me. “Art, your eyes are closed and mouth is open.”

I didn’t ask to see it. She banished the photo into the darkroom of her bag.

Mr. Stephens said, “You’re more than welcome to stow your photos and gear.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

He added, “While I wouldn’t say you are inappropriately dressed, Mercy, I wonder if you don’t happen to have a dress or pair of slacks in that shoulder bag.”

Cayla and I were wearing the same clothes we wore two weeks ago. Mr. Stephens waved a palm-up hand in our direction. We were the models of dressing appropriately, though his hand was disappointed in us too; it was a look-what-I-have-to-work-with hand.

Mercy said, “A black sweater with no holes is as good as I get.”