She locked the bathroom door at 7:40 and sat on the edge of the tub with the fan running, having asked for five minutes. Her thumb started moving before she had decided to look at anything. Each clip ended roughly half a second before her attention did. She was thirty-six, worked Tuesdays through Saturdays, and this was the only door in the house that locked.

She came out at 8:50. Seventy minutes, of which she could account for maybe six. Under the door, pushed halfway through the gap, was a drawing of four stick figures and a dog they did not own. Her daughter had gone to bed. The drawing had been slid under at some point in the dark by a three-year-old who had learned how to wait.