The severed tail of the brown magnetic tape fluttered twice against the clear plastic window, then fell still.
Inside the small foam earpieces, the hiss of thirty-year-old static vanished, replaced by a dead, hollow silence.
Julian did not move. He sat at the semicircular desk of Nurse Station 4B with the black Sony M-430 recorder resting flat in the palm of his right hand.
His fingers were rigid. His thumb remained pressed against the cold aluminum casing.
The shift clock on the wall clicked forward with a dull mechanical tick: 12:51 AM.
Elena slid her headphones down to her collar. She looked at Julian’s face, her grey eyes narrowing with immediate concern.
“Julian?” Elena said softly. Her voice was cautious, keeping below the threshold of the wire-glass window.
“Julian, breathe.”
