She is just trying to get that roll of film developed. The clerk is not helping. Doubles? Glossy or matte? White borders? How can she possibly decide such things when she really has no idea what is on the film? That's why she's trying to have it developed. That, and because there might be something useful on that roll, since she's going back, something parleyable. She snapped all those pictures furtively on the way up, in haste, shielding the camera from the view of her escorts and their two-headed dogs. Will there be anything on the film at all? Who knows.
She settles on something just to be done with it, gives the clerk her cell number, and jams the slip of paper he hands her into her front pocket, next to the film cannister, now empty of film. The pips of the pomegranate rattle in the black plastic as she walks out into the sunlight.
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