The photographer's assistant adjusts the ring light for the third time, and Andrea forces herself to stand still, to keep smiling, to pretend she's present instead of miles away in her own head.
"Can we get more energy?" The photographer—Marcus, or maybe Martin, Andrea can't remember—circles her with his camera, clicking continuously. "You're giving me 'funeral' when I need 'fierce.'"
Andrea adjusts her posture, arching her back slightly, tilting her chin the way she's done a thousand times before. But even she can see in the monitor that something's off. Her eyes are dull, shadowed with exhaustion. Her smile doesn't reach past her lips. She looks like a mannequin going through motions, not a model selling a lifestyle.
"Better," the photographer lies. "Let's try the denim jacket shots."
