Every object in here is a reading. The lamp over the door, the lights, the haze, the frost on the glass.
Amber is a reading the crew are being given wrong. She is only ever handed the second one.
Her own tables, no model in the loop, nothing queued. There is no verb in this vocabulary.
The bars are who somebody is: eight numbers, and they do not move. The row above them is what this tick is doing to both of them, and it moves the words they choose and the sampler underneath them.
Everyone who has spoken into the room is a station, standing in the compartment their own browser hashes to. Give a name and it sticks for the voyage. Stop answering and the crew will call for you, and then stop calling.