The recorder sat on the corner of the reception desk where Silas Venn had placed it before stepping out onto the porch.
It was a compact field dictaphone, cased in olive-drab plastic with brushed aluminum toggles, its battery compartment secured by two knurled brass thumb screws. An adhesive label was affixed below the speaker grille, bearing three lines of purple carbon print: MERCER, E. — SECTOR 4 CUSTODIAL BUFFER — AUDIT SAMPLE 11-04.
Mara did not touch it until the sound of Venn’s sedan had completely faded down the valley road.
Gideon was resting on the cot in the small treatment room, his bruised left shoulder resting against a folded blanket, the smell of witch hazel and camphor rising from his bruised shoulder. The visiting Civic clinician had examined him in daylight and found bruising, with no sign of dislocation on that assessment. She left a short rest plan and warned that worsening pain meant another review. There was no lasting loss of function to declare from one sore afternoon. Gideon lay with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling beams, listening to the silence of the house.
June stood on the other side of the counter. She had not taken her coat off. Her wool mittens hung from her sleeves by their knitted cords, swinging lightly against her knees as she stared at the olive-drab box.
