Jonah sat with the lamp and the mug and the city. He felt the odd pressure of having witnessed something intimate and illicit. The dual audio had done something like translation without translation: it left him with echoes, with mismatched recollections that fit together only by force. He thought of police reports and press releases, of algorithmic tags and cold metadata—how each would flatten the story into neat nouns. What the film had given him instead was the residue of people arguing for one another from different tongues, stubbornly refusing to be summarized.