I’m Kaylin, nineteen, still wearing the same cherry-flavored lip gloss I put on this morning for senior year pictures that never actually happened. My heart is hammering so hard I swear the tiny microphone clipped to my baby-pink bralette is picking it up. The living-room set is brighter than I expected—three softboxes blasting warm light, a cream sectional that smells like new leather, and two cameras on tripods pointed at me like they already know what I’m about to do.

Joseph, the ...