"Okay," she whispered. "That's new."
She opened the lid against every instinct. The photo was gone. In its place was a simple message box:
Her hand, moving without permission, hovered over the touchpad. The cursor drifted toward . printscreen button on laptop
The screen flickered. Just once. Then went dark.
She turned around. Her office was empty. "Okay," she whispered
Lena slammed the laptop shut.
"Stupid thing," she muttered, and then remembered the key. Her laptop manufacturer, in its infinite wisdom, had decided that Printscreen was a secondary function. So she held down Fn , tapped PrtSc , and waited. In its place was a simple message box:
She reached for the button on her laptop keyboard. It sat quietly in the top row, sandwiched between F12 and the ominous "Insert." She pressed it. Nothing happened. No flash, no click, no comforting ding .