The away dressing room at Home Park was a scene of beautiful, glorious carnage.
Empty water bottles lay strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers.
The tactics board was covered in celebratory scribbles.
And in the middle of it all, the nine heroes of the miracle win were in various states of ecstatic exhaustion.
Kenny McLean was just sitting on a bench, staring into the middle distance, shaking his head. "I've played over 500 professional games in my career," he said to no one in particular. "I have never, ever seen anything like that. Not even close."
Jonathan Rowe, still buzzing with adrenaline, was re-enacting Emre's solo goal using a stray sock as a ball. "And then he did the little shimmy, and the defender? Gone! And then the keeper? See ya later! It was poetry!"
In one corner, a strange alliance had formed. Grant Hanley and David Kerrigan, the two players who had been sent off, were sitting side-by-side in a self-imposed "naughty corner."
