Camille holds a thumbs up beside her cheek, and the hand she raises is a polydactyl hand — six fingers, each one naturally formed and proportioned, four folded into the palm while the sixth tucks neatly alongside them and the thumb juts up, her short nails carrying chipped clear varnish. Her pale freckled skin blows slightly bright under the flash, freckles washing across the bridge of her nose. Her dark blonde hair sits in a low bun already slipping, two loose strands dropping past her ear. She is lean and narrow-shouldered, and her offhand thrifted style shows in the navy-and-cream striped long-sleeve cotton top and the black cardigan sliding off her right shoulder without being fixed. A slim leather-strapped watch rides her raised wrist with its face turned inward, and two thin stacked brass rings catch a hard point of light on her fourth finger. Behind her the bank of dented mailboxes runs across the tiled landing, their little brass slots dulled, the scuffed green paint of the wall flaking near the skirting. One bicycle wheel leans into the corner of the stairwell, spokes fanning into the dark. It is well after dark, and the Canon PowerShot A570 compact credit reads plainly: eye-level from a step and a half back, 35mm-equivalent zoom at the wide end, the crop closing at her collarbones, flat deep focus keeping mailboxes and wall as sharp as her face. Hard direct on-camera flash serves as the only key, throwing a bright hotspot across the floor tiles and letting the stairs fall to black behind her, high contrast, coarse grain crawling in the shadow corners.