She had noticed, and remembered, and recorded, in the dark, alone, with no lawyer and no advocate and no reason for hope — because some stubborn part of her had refused to accept the disappearance he kept promising her.

I had spent eight years admiring that quality in my colleagues and calling it professionalism.

I saw it that night in a frightened girl with a mug of cold tea, and understood it for what it actually is, which is courage.

“He has copies of my documents,” she said, near the end, so quietly I had to lean in.

“He told me he could make me disappear.”

“He can’t,” I said.