“How nice!” Zoë had said earlier on, when she brought me a mug of tea. “Oh, to be footloose and fancy-free.” She didn’t sound especially wistful; I think it was her way of saying, You don’t own much stuff, do you?

There were a couple of posters on my wall—pre-Raphaelite prints I’d loved when I was a teenager—but as I was packing I’d torn them down and thrown them away. I lingered on the spaces where they’d been, and the shadows they’d left on the wallpaper . . . but I didn’t have time for thoughts like that. I rearranged my books so that I could fit the Open University prospectus on top without bending it, and I looked round for something else to do. There must be something else to do. There always had been—one way or another—over the last couple of months.

“Photos!” I said aloud, and ran downstairs to fetch them from the dresser drawer. The house felt considerably smaller whenever Zoë was here. It also felt warmer, because she liked to have the radiators on. She and Dad were in the kitchen at the moment, cooking my farewell meal; I could smell grated ginger and garlic, and frying onions.

Dad was chopping red peppers when I went in, but as soon as he saw I was holding the photos he stopped and wiped his hands on a tea towel.

“What are you doing with those?”

It was the hushed voice he always reserved for Mum and Stella, and it put me on edge.

“Would you mind if I took one with me?”

I pushed aside the felt coverings. It was difficult—try as I might—to avoid echoing his reverent tone.

There were half a dozen photos to choose from. I’d meant to leaf through the pile so that Dad could say, “Yes, take that one,” or “No, leave that one for me,” but the frames were slippery and bulky, and I was afraid of dropping them, so I just stood there and held them out.

Zoë pushed gently between us and peered over her glasses. I shuffled aside to give her a better view. The first photo showed the four of us—Mum, Dad, Stella, and me—on a log flume, and I could never decide if I remembered the thrill of the fall and the splash of cold water on my legs, or if I only seemed to remember because of this picture. Mum and Stella were shrieking with excitement and throwing their arms in the air, while Dad and I crouched behind, half hidden, our features tight and fearful.

Zoë picked it up and studied it closely. She laughed—genuinely laughed—as if she saw a funny snap from a theme park instead of a picture that had been darkened, beyond recognition, by circumstance and time.