Marcus, ever the protector, came over the first week to personally install high-grade deadbolts and a state-of-the-art security system. My attorney, a fierce woman who had fought tooth and nail for my independence, called to check on me more often than she needed to.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted my new living room in shades of gold, I did the last thing left to do.

I reached into my purse and pulled out the heavy, matte-black tactical keychain. It was scuffed now, bearing the microscopic scars of the night it saved my life.

I didn’t hide it in a drawer. I didn’t throw it in the trash.

I reached up and hung the heavy fob on a small brass hook right next to my new front door. I didn’t hang it there out of fear. I hung it there to remember that I had been the one who pressed it.

I walked down the hall into my new, brightly lit bathroom. I turned on the faucet and splashed cool water over my face, letting it wash away the exhaustion of the last six months.