Somewhere in the last weeks I had stopped waiting to feel unafraid before I acted, and started acting while afraid, which I have since learned is the only kind of courage that actually exists.

The taxi carried me through the dark industrial streets, and I did not tell it to turn around, and that — the not turning around, while every cell in me screamed to — was the bravest thing I have ever done, and I did it for the boy who had done something braver, weeks earlier, in a courtroom, for me.

When the taxi dropped me near the dark complex I paid the driver and stepped down onto the gravel alone.

Chapter 21 — The Warehouse

The warehouse smelled of damp concrete and rust and old motor oil, lit by a single bulb hung near the entrance.

A text arrived on my screen as I crossed toward it: Walk in.