“It’s really tall,” the girl said.

Claire’s cursor froze in the middle of the screen.

The brass clock ticked.

The console recorder picked up that tick, she knew, the way it picked up everything within three feet of her desk: the pen, the clock, her own breathing when a call went long.

“Tall,” Claire repeated.

“Taller than the doorknob.”

“Is it moving around?”

“It stands really still.” Emily’s voice went thin.