I installed it because I needed something that would not flinch.
That night, as Aaron stood over me and my father’s voice floated through the open 911 line, I thought of the tiny black pinhole above my bookshelf.
The camera.
If it was still recording, the room had a witness they could not bully.
I tried to say it.
Check the camera.
My mouth moved, but no sound came out.
The ceiling pulled away from me.
The operator’s voice stretched thin.
The last thing I saw was Aaron stepping back, already fixing his face into something almost worried.
The next light was white and harsh.
My living room had become a place of careful voices.
