Rachel’s lip was split, one eye was darkening into a heavy bruise, and there was dried blood on the collar of her jacket.

She had, I would learn, come to me directly from the worst night of her own life.

“I’m not here to run,” she said, and her voice was shaking.

“I already know how this looks.

I came to give you this.” And she reached into a hidden seam in her sleeve and drew out a small memory card, and held it toward me.

I could barely make myself look at her.