A few of us — the women who had been targets of that machine — found each other, and formed a small, private circle to help one another climb back out.

One of them texted me, months in: I signed the papers on my new house today.

For the first time in four years, I feel like my life belongs to me again. And I read it several times, because it named just what had been stolen from all of us, and exactly what we were taking back.

Not money.

Not land.

Those were only the instruments.