He had taken my freedom, my company, my name, my bracelet, my father’s promise; taking was how he moved through the world, and so when his world began to end he assumed, in his bones, that something must have been taken from him in return, and he called to find out what.

But I had not beaten him by taking.

I had beaten him by keeping.

While he was busy taking everything he could see, I had quietly kept the things he couldn’t: I kept the knowledge of how his money moved, which I’d had all along and which he’d forgotten was in the room.

I kept my composure, the composure he’d mistaken for coldness, which let me sit in a cell for two years and plan instead of unravel.

I kept my mentor’s number and my professional contacts and my license, none of which he thought to strip because none of them looked like weapons to him.