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I waited, watching, arms folded.

Imogen jolted awake, eyes flashing about in a panic before she realised where she was. She relaxed as she got her bearings, rubbed her face with her palms, propped herself up on an elbow and then looked around the dorm. Seeing she was alone, she leaned out of bed and flicked on the lights.

The greenscreen image instantly flared to a white blank, then the facility’s familiar dorm room re-emerged in full colour. Eight beds, wardrobes, tables, lamps, mess – all the signs of human habitation, of a group of people living packed in together.

My wife climbed out of bed and walked out of shot in her pyjamas.

I waited.

Almost four minutes later, she came back carrying a glass of water and an industrial-looking phone with a long cable trailing behind it. She sat down at the far side of her bed, facing away from the camera, tapped numbers into the phone and put it to her ear.

I could only see the back of Imogen’s neck and jawline, but it was enough to tell she was talking to someone, speaking into the phone and then listening. After a little while, she turned, looked straight at the camera in surprise and silently mouthed, Jesus, how many?