It was dark inside.
Saint smelled it first.
The chemical so barbarous she pressed a hand to her mouth for a moment till her eyes adjusted.
She made out shapes, a chair and metal lockers, a couple of steel tables and a basin, and on the walls were papers she could not make out.
“Patch,” she called, quiet because the storm was dying, despite the last flashes, the death twitches.
She saw plastic trays, tongs, papers. On a shelf were bottles.
Rapid Fixer.
Indicator Stop Bath.
Vario Fix Powder.
Saint reached the far end of the barn, stopped before a false wall, and squinted through the darkness to make out the papers.
The thunder stopped as sudden as it began.
And when the sun emerged through heavy rain, and light fell through the open door, only then did she see what she was looking at.
The girl in the photograph was terrified.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Squinting at the camera, her glasses missing.
Saint stared at her teenage self as she drew her gun.
A hand found her mouth.
And stifled her scream.