I throw the photographs in his face.

I scream.

I am righteous and loud and unmistakably wronged, and the scene is satisfying, and it accomplishes precisely nothing except to warn a clever man that the clock has started.

I know that version well, because part of me wanted to live it every single day of those three weeks.

The rage was there, constant, a low fire I banked each morning and stoked back down each night.

What I learned in that time is that self-control is not the absence of anger; it is anger held at a temperature where it can do work instead of damage.