He paused the film. Frank Morris was just sliding a dummy head into his bunk.

“Arjun Mehta?” the first one asked.

Halfway through the film, during the scene where the prisoners painstakingly build a raft out of raincoats, his own doorbell rang. He ignored it. It rang again. Then came the knocking—sharp, official.

He unplugged the laptop, carried it to his cramped bedroom, and pulled the blinds. The room went dark, save for the pale blue glow of the screen. He clicked play.