“Why thank ye,” she says, smiling. “Aye, they’re aids; built ‘em myself, these ones’re an improved blueprint from the ones little me’s wearin’ that dad and gran there helped me make. They taught me a lot, wouldn’t be half as good an engineer or coder if not for them.”

The memory in front of them progresses; it’s a comforting memory that she has no desire to try and interrupt, despite the subtle ache in her chest at seeing her dad and hearing them talk about her Mam as if she’s still alive, because back then she was.

She jumps at the same moment little Cammie does at the lightning, then laughs at herself.

“I’d snatch a biscuit if this were real,” she says, as her Gran pours them out on a plate. “Those were the kind I only got on special occasions. Apparently bein’ awake, scared of a storm, counted.”