Zachary came and crouched beside me, resting a steadying, supportive hand on my shoulder, and I felt absurdly grateful for it, whatever we were about to find.

I got my fingernails into the plastic seal at the top of the bag.

I braced myself, genuinely braced myself, for the sharp chemical sting of something illegal, some acrid laboratory smell that would confirm every terrible thing I had spent the morning believing.

I pulled the plastic edges apart.

And I breathed in.

I have thought about that particular decision, the decision to open the bag and taste its contents, more than any other from that whole morning, because it is the moment the story could have gone another way entirely.

I could have refused to check.