"Should we go for another round?"
He said it the way he said everything — level, already decided, the question a courtesy rather than an inquiry.
Minjung looked at the phone in her hand.
Sixty-one percent battery. Two hours and four minutes of footage. Her jeans were uncomfortable in a way that had graduated from inconvenient to actively distracting over the last twenty minutes.
She looked at the jet camera mounts. The fixed ones on the ceiling.
Then at the small tripod stand folded near the equipment ledge — she'd noticed it earlier and filed it under things in this room I'm going to stop noticing before I have to think about what it's for.
"You planned all of this," she said.
"Yes."
"The stand. The cameras. All eight of them on that bed—"
"Minjung."
She stopped.
His hand found the phone in hers. Took it. Walked to the stand, unfolded it in two motions, mounted the phone at the angle that covered the bed, the wall, and the space between. The red dot blinked on.
