And then Brock caught them on the road, forced the truck to pull over, and told the driver, with all the easy warmth he could summon, that his poor young wife suffered from severe psychiatric episodes, was confused and frightened and a danger to herself, and needed to come home.

And the driver — a decent man, I have no doubt, doing what he thought was kind — believed the calm, well-dressed husband over the frantic woman, and drove away.

Brock took her back.

And that lie, that particular lie, is the one I want you to remember, because it is the engine of the whole machine that men like my son build.

They do not only imprison a woman’s body.