My lawyer, a plain and careful woman who had handled ugly divorces for thirty years, read the report twice and set it down and looked at me for a long moment.

“I want to be clear about what this is,” she said.

“Most of what walks through my door is he-said, she-said.

Bad behavior nobody can prove.

But this is a lab result with your name on it and a substance in your blood you were never prescribed, and a bottle, sealed, with a chain of custody, and a prescription trail.

This isn’t a feeling.