If I stormed in wild-eyed and accusing, waving pills and shouting about conspiracies, I would not be exposing his story.

I would be performing it, in front of whatever audience he chose, and every word out of my mouth would become evidence for the narrative he’d spent half a year constructing.

So I did the hardest thing.

I flushed that morning’s dose, and I took my espresso with a grateful smile, and I let him believe the fog was still exactly where he’d left it.

And then I began, very quietly, to build a case.

It is difficult to describe how much that restraint cost, because every cell in my body was screaming for the immediate, righteous, satisfying thing.