The chair is in the middle, in the approved style of the Witness, and the screens are arrayed all around just as they were in the one where Diana Hunter died. The machines are dormant, but not switched off. They whisper gently, and—more important to her right now—they give off heat. There are only two things out of place. The first is a free-standing clothes rail with a dressing gown on a hanger. Without thinking she puts it on, then wonders if it was left for her, or if the last shoulders it wrapped were Hunter’s.