The chess set sits on the side table where George left it last session. The board is still set from the game we didn't finish. She looks at it.
"Whose move?"
"Mine."
"And you haven't made it."
"I'm waiting."
"For what?"
"The right moment."
The camera pans left. I track it without turning my head. The red indicator light on the housing sweeps across the room in a predictable, faithful arc.
She picks her pen up from the table and turns to a new page.
"Last question. Anything you want flagged for the record? Anything you need?"
I reach across and take the pen from her hand. My fingers close over hers and I pull it free, slow. She lets me. Her hand hangs in the air for a second after it leaves her grip, suspended, fingers still curled around nothing.
I set the pen on my side of the table. She looks at it. Then at me.
"I need that back."
"Come and get it."
Her eyes narrow. Amused, not afraid. She extends her hand, palm up, fingers open.
"Jude."
"Hope."
She laughs. Short, quiet. Shakes her head. "You're a pain in my ass."
"I've been told that before."
Behind me, Gage's radio crackles. I hear his boot shift on the floor, the leather of his belt creaking as he turns to answer. His voice drops—the tone he uses for shift coordination.
The camera reaches its leftmost stop.
I pick up the pen and stand. My height puts her at eye level with my chest and she has to tilt her head back to find my face. I hold the pen out, and she stands to take it, her chair pushing back against the floor.
"Behind you," I say.
She turns. The chessboard on the side table, next to the pillar. I take a step and she takes one with me, half-turning to see what I'm pointing at.
"George moved the bishop before he left. See it?"
She steps closer to the board. We're beside the pillar now. The dead zone. I don't need to look to know.
Gage is in the corridor. His voice is still low. The radio conversation has eight seconds left if the pattern holds.
I put my hand on the back of her neck.
My palm fits against the curve where her hair meets her spine. Soft in a way that has no place in this building, against a hand that has broken more bones than I can count on both of hers. My thumb presses the side of her throat and I can feel her pulse under the pad of it—steady at first, then faster.
She turns her head and looks at me, her eyes blue and clear and nothing in them that resembles fear.
