I have spent the years since trying to become the kind of person who believes him.

One rainy afternoon, cleaning out an old backpack, I found a folded scrap of notebook paper in a side pocket.

The note. Pretend you feel sick.

Don’t drink the tea.

We have to get out of here. I sat on the floor and held it a long while, then put it in a small wooden box with our photographs, where the important things go.

I look at it sometimes.