The dining hall was different than usual.
The long tables were pushed against the walls, and in the center stood display boards covered with photos—colorful, chaotic, blurry images, captured seconds that smelled of life. Voices mingled, laughter echoed off the walls, and the noise level was so high you could barely hear what you were thinking.
It was the final evening program—the exhibition of our photos.
The end of the weekend.
Fiona immediately dragged me to the first board. "Look! Jonas falling—my masterpiece."
I leaned forward, saw Jonas mid-jump, arms flailing, legs twisted, his face a single expression of terror.
I had to laugh, loud and genuine. "You're definitely hanging that above your bed."
"Of course. Right next to the one of you laughing at me."
She grinned, pulled out her camera, and actually took a photo of Jonas, who was loudly complaining that it was "just a tactical slip."
