Some of his freshly developed photographs inevitably end up falling in with her own, and try as she might to gather up hers and only hers, some of his make it into the ones she's holding like a hand of cards at a poker table. There's a couple in here at that are blurred, as if the images were snapped mid-lurch with the colors and faces of people stretched beyond recognition.

"These aren't mine," she says, pulling the pictures in question from her hand and holding them out to her. "Must be yours."