Rain-grey light through the blinds and one lamp still on over a dead recorder, a transcript the thickness of a phone book with a red tab sticking out at page fourteen. Leon Kennedy is on the wrong side of the table: shearling-collar jacket still on, collar up, the cuffs gone shiny at the wrist, gravel dust in the seams of his boots that three days of hallways haven't fixed. He has the look of a man who has just stopped pretending to read something.

He turns the transcript around with two fingers and finds the tab without looking. Page fourteen, lakeshore channel. A line of timestamps, then a clean white gap where the next line should be.

He picks up a pen from your side of the table and doesn't seem to notice he's done it. He taps the empty line once with the cap.