Up on her hand-me-down laptop: a media player, screen black, long since finished playing. A film--Ong Bak--and a favorite of hers, among the heavily curated and torrented collection of foreign fighting films on the hard drive. From the grainy webcam image: herself, horizontal in the frame, buried beneath several blankets. Heavy curtains are drawn behind the ugly and cramped couch back she lays on, blocking out enough of the afternoon light so she can sleep--after a long late-night shift, it seems, judging by the out-of-focus, capsized bottle of whiskey filling the rest of the picture.
On closer inspection, her watcher can see the twitching of her jaw, how her hair sticks to her pale forehead, slick with sweat. The deep crease of her brow. The darkness around her sunken eyes, as they roll wildly beneath the lids.