The Truth I Carried Home
So he had not marched or shouted, had not made himself a spectacle.
He had gathered, quietly and patiently, the way a person builds something meant to last.
Sample by sample, record by record, name by name, he had assembled something that could not be waved away, could not be reduced to the word of one angry young man, because it was not the word of one young man.
It was the water itself, and the paper trail, and the voices of people who had been there.
It was, in the most literal sense, the truth, written down and made to hold.
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