Two of the three videos Tyler posted were flagged and systematically taken down before many people saw them, but one person who did was Beth. Her goal that night was to stay up as late as physically possible to ensure the next day passed in a fog, and in retrospect she would remember little about it. She had lain in bed, waiting for Greg’s light to go white and dormant in the next room, and when it finally did, she turned to her phone. The first video, which she didn’t watch until the end, was of a procession of about twelve ordinary-looking people into an anonymous room lit in yellow, where they stood in a ring. The shot was static from an upper corner of the room, like footage from a security camera. A man in the center, dressed in a monkish robe, walked slowly past each person in turn, speaking quietly, his voice muffled, around the entire group. When he had spoken to each one, he went to the center of the circle. He clapped his hands once, and all but two members of the group collapsed onto the floor, as if they’d been suddenly shut down. The two who remained standing (she couldn’t make out faces, but it was a middle-aged bald man in a polo shirt and a blond woman in cutoffs, who looked younger) clearly weren’t expecting it—they looked frantically around, at each other, at the man in the center. He knelt and left something on the floor between them, then left the center of the circle, stepping over the prostrate bodies. The man and woman both made for the object at once; they met each other in the middle with an audible clap of flesh. The man elbowed the woman in the face, she recoiled, and he brandished whatever he’d taken off the floor. She dived at him and they squirmed on the floor as she tried to wrest it from him. There was very little sound broadcast up through the phone’s tiny speaker—distant, staggered breathing, a grunt. The bodies lay still around them, and the leader stood at the far wall, observing. Beth stopped the video a minute before its end, the man and woman tangled at the center of the room, their limbs shuffling in conflict, the blurry quality of the footage making their bodies indistinguishable from each other. She scrolled immediately to the second video, prepared to stop it as soon as it started playing, her thumb hovering over the screen: the camera was focused on a young man, five or six years older than her—an adult—twenty-one or twenty-two, maybe, wearing glasses, sitting in a cell-like room. He sat still for a while, ten seconds or so (she had turned the volume off at this point), and then slammed his head onto the metal table before him, three times. Beth felt like she could almost hear it. When he raised his head back up his forehead was a splotchy red, his glasses shattered but still clinging to his face. He turned slowly to the wall at his right, looking furious, and bashed his face into the concrete; when he drew back the color was even angrier, incipient blood, like when you get scraped on gravel, his nose looked crooked, the glasses were gone. He ran his hand down his face; his fingers drew the blood out and smeared it. Beth stopped the video. The third was a rapey blowjob video where the person giving the blowjob was wearing a rubber monster mask, which she saw approximately one second of; the sound somehow jumped back on when she clicked the thumbnail and she heard this brief muffled gargle she knew she would never be able to forget. She deleted her Facebook account and turned off her phone—shut it completely down—and true to her wish she did not sleep that night, and by the time she arrived at school the next morning, the bruise on her neck a harsh purple, she had no thought for it whatsoever, it’d been subsumed into the violence of the content on her phone, like an allergic rash.