There was nothing to do but listen. Amy closed her eyes and listened to the whirring of the cameras as their motorized lenses zoomed in and out, their irises adjusting automatically. Her hearing moved past them, past the shiftings and scrapings of the people around the table, past the clatter of handcuffs. She heard the bass roar of the massive HVAC system, and she listened past that. She heard the wide, unnatural emptiness of the store, then the gurgle of pipes in the walls. She heard the building creaking and popping as it settled around them. Then her hearing sailed outside the building and she imagined she could hear the crunch of Basil’s sneakers in the parking lot as he paced in circles, waiting for the police.

And then another noise—much closer. A soft, wet sound. Someone breathing. It came from across the table. Amy’s concentration snapped into focus, but it took some effort to swim up through her layers of awareness and finally open her eyes.

It was Trinity. Her eyes were closed, and in the mellow candlelight Amy thought she could see them flickering back and forth underneath their lids. Her mouth was hanging open, her fists were balled on the table, clenched hard inside their silver bracelets, and her nose was running. A thin trickle of snot collected on her upper lip until her heavy breathing sucked it into her open mouth. A dozen wisecracks sprang to mind, but Amy resisted the urge to say anything. Everyone was being so serious.

The snot kept flowing, more and more of it, streaming over Trinity’s upper lip and trickling into her mouth. It was disgusting. Amy glanced over at Matt, but his eyes were closed. They all had their eyes closed. Amy shifted in her chair. Shouldn’t someone say something? Or maybe wake Trinity up? She wouldn’t want this in her Ghost Bomb reel.

Finally Trinity’s mouth was full and the snot spilled out, stretching toward the tabletop, a thin silver strand of drool hanging from her lower lip. It began to stretch and descended, quivering toward the tabletop, swinging gently back and forth, until its pendulous head tapped the front of Trinity’s T-shirt and stuck there.

Amy couldn’t stand it anymore. “Hey,” she whispered.

With a sudden wet gasp, Trinity opened her eyes and tried to swallow. Her throat flexed and she choked on the thick glutinous mass. She gagged and gagged again, unable to get it all down. She reached for her neck, but her handcuffed wrists couldn’t get close enough.

“Matt!” Amy called.

“It’s okay,” Matt said to Trinity. “I’m here.”

Ruth Anne opened her eyes. “What’s happening?”

“She’s choking. Get these cuffs off.”

“It’s okay,” Matt repeated. “Just spit it up, Trin. Get it out.”