FADE IN: INT. MARA'S APARTMENT, ANCHORAGE, PRE-DAWN A table. A rectangular equipment case, open, the foam interior cut to the exact dimensions of each item it holds. The cutouts are empty. MARA SOLANO (38) moves through the apartment with the precision of someone on a known route. Lights come on only in the rooms she enters. Her face in the kitchen light is lean and sun-darkened, the skin around her eyes holding the particular fine lines of someone who has spent years squinting into underwater darkness. She is not beautiful in a way that announces itself. She is sharp, economical, present. She carries her rebreather unit from the closet shelf and sets it into its foam cutout. She checks the valve seal. Tightens it a quarter turn. Notes it in her mind. The coffee maker is running. Her attention is elsewhere. She moves to the case with her dive computer: a Shearwater Perdix 2 in a heavy-duty housing. She checks the battery indicator. 94 percent. She sets it in its cutout. One photograph on the wall across the room. Her back is to it. We look at it: a deep blue underwater image, a sunken wooden structure colonized by coral, taken from below so that the surface is visible far above. It is not art that was purchased. It is a print that was made. She carries the case to the couch and sits beside it, going through each item not by looking but by touch: the1