“Mike,” the leader says. “Where’s Mom?”

“She hates these things,” Mr. U. says. “She’s out of town.”

“That’s a lie,” the leader says. “He told us you’d both be here. Like half an hour ago. When he called to give us the go-ahead. Where’s Mom, Mike?”

Adult son Mike’s eyes are closed tight and he is slightly swaying.

“He’s scared,” Mr. U. says. “He doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening.”

“He arranged it, dumbass,” the leader says.

“I know that,” Mr. U. says softly. “Of course I know that.”

“I’m for the freedom,” adult son Mike says. “But not for the killing.”

“Well, you can’t be for the freedom and against the killing,” says the yellow-sneakered girl.

“Which of you is Angela Untermeyer?” asks the leader.

A long silence falls on Listening Room.

“I am Spartacus,” jokes a male member of Company, then, seeming to immediately regret it, covers his mouth with both hands.

“That’s her,” Lauren says. “Back there.”

Mrs. U. sneers, pushes off the wall, joins Mr. U. at the front, takes his hand, brings it to her lips for a kiss.

The leader raises his gun to the head of Mr. U. as the yellow-sneakered girl begins filming on her phone.

“For the crime of the degradation of men and women who, no less than you, deserve lives full of dignity, respect, and autonomy,” the leader says, “we sentence you to death.”

“What?” shrieks adult son Mike.

“You two to death,” says the yellow-sneakered girl.

“We sentence the two of you to death,” the leader says, “in hopes that, across the land, others of your ilk, seeing this, will come to understand that the systematic abuse of innocent human beings has consequences.”

“Severe consequences,” says the yellow-sneakered girl.

“We’ve never abused anyone in our lives,” Mrs. U. says, in a rasp she can barely get out.

“Excuse me, not true,” says Lauren.

Everyone looks at Lauren.

“She sexually abuses Jeremy here,” she says. “Often.”

Everyone looks at me.

“She comes in here at night, makes him Speak to her, while she, you know,” Lauren says.

“Self-pleasures,” says Craig.

Everyone looks at Mrs. U.

Who is blushing.

“I never,” she stammers. “It was . . .”

“It was what?” the yellow-sneakered girl demands.

“Consensual,” says Mrs. U.

“How can it be consensual when your victim’s been brain-wiped and Pinioned to a Wall and has no memories whatsoever of ever having been out of this room?” the leader says. “Enlighten us.”

“It is,” I say.

Everyone looks back at me.

“Very much so,” I say. “I like it. I like her. I live for it. I love her.”

“Oh boy,” says the leader. “Someone shut this poor sap down.”

What a dummy. I am not even On. We are Paused. This is just me, myself, speaking from the heart.

The yellow-sneakered girl strides to Podium and, messing with something there, takes us, in her ignorance, off Pause, pegging our Intensity not just to high but, it feels like, very highest, where we never go.