“Doesn’t matter, we’re not going musical, this is a drama day. Lower your left shoulder strap— make sure it’s the left one because that’s your good side, your right side’s a little weak. Be sure not to take off your whole top, this isn’t porno, we just need to see your undraped posture à la classical sculpture.”

The camera pulled back, showed the girl sitting primly on a folding chair, wearing a skimpy red top held in place by spaghetti straps. Bare, tan, slender legs, advertised by a short, denim skirt. Sandaled feet planted on the ground. High-heeled brown sandals.

“Go ahead,” said Brad.

Looking confused, she reached up and loosened the right strap.

“Left!”

“Sorry, sorry, always had trouble with— sorry, Brad, always had trouble...” She switched to the left, fumbled, lowered.

The camera moved in on smooth, golden shoulder. Drew back to a full-body view.

Fifteen seconds passed.

“You’ve got a beautiful torso.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

“Know what a torso is?”

“The body— Brad.”

“The upper body. Yours is classical. You’re very lucky.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

“Think you’ve also got talent?”

“Umm, I hope so— Brad.”

“Oh, c’mon, let’s hear some insouciance, some confidence, some superstar can-do attitude.”

Blue eyes batted. The girl sat up straight, tossed her hair. Pumped a fist and shouted. “I’m the best! Brad!”

“Up for anything?”

“Sure. Brad.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Five seconds. Then: clang clang. Thud thud thud thud thud.

Noise from behind made the girl turn.

“Don’t move,” barked Brad.

The girl froze.

“Here’s your costar.”

“I— umm— oh— didn’t know there was going to be— ”

“A star’s got to be up for anything.”

The girl’s head began to swivel again. Froze, once more, responding to a command that never came.

“Good,” soothed Brad. “You’re learning.”

The girl licked her lips and smiled.

The gray behind her turned flesh-colored.

Hirsute expanse of chest and belly. Tattooed arms.

The camera trailed lower to a bearish clump of pubic hair. A limp penis dangled inches from the girl’s cheek.

The girl’s shoulders stiffened.

“I— uh— ”

“Relax,” said Brad Dowd. “Remember what Nora taught you about improv.”

“But— sure. Brad.”

“Remain perfectly still— think body control...that’s a good girl.”

The hairy bulk pulsated. Tattoos jumped.

The camera panned up to a sweat-glossed dinner-plate face. Frizzy muttonchops. Clipped mustache.

Reynold Peaty’s hands lowered onto the girl’s shoulders. His right thumb slipped under the right spaghetti strap. Toyed with the string. Slid it off.

The girl jumped and twisted, craned to see him. His left hand gripped the top of her head and held her in place.

“He’s hurting— ”

“Mouth shut!” said Brad Dowd. “Don’t want to catch flies.”

Peaty’s right hand reached around and clamped over the girl’s mouth.