“Court-martialed.

Stripped of rank, dishonorably discharged, sent to Leavenworth.” Amara took a slow breath, let the breeze catch her hair, and did not look back into any of it with anger or fear.

She just looked out at the water.

We had come to Savannah on purpose, to a house near the water, because Amara had said once, early in her recovery, that she wanted to live somewhere she could see a long way.

I understood what she meant without her having to explain it.

For six months she had been made small — locked in a guest house, watched, told that her own perceptions were symptoms, taught that there was nowhere to run and no one who would believe her.