A low, electrified murmur rolled through the gallery. The judge peered over her reading glasses, a flicker of respect crossing her features.

“The objection is overruled,” she stated firmly. “The witness may proceed. Let’s hear your analysis, Dr. Vance.”

Dr. Vance. Hearing my proper title in a courtroom again felt like oxygen rushing into starving lungs.

I stood. Slowly, methodically, I unbuttoned the front of my high-necked blouse and slipped it off my shoulders, letting it drape over the back of the chair, leaving me in a simple camisole.

The silence became absolute.

Revealed under the harsh fluorescent lights was the topography of my survival. Pale, crescent-shaped scars mapped my shoulders. A jagged, poorly healed laceration sat above my collarbone.