I left the restaurant within ten minutes. I drove home. I felt, that night, a thing I have never felt before or since — a perfect, clean, slightly frightening calm. I did not cry. I did not second-guess. I did not feel guilty. I went to bed. I slept nine hours. I woke up to forty-seven missed calls and one hundred and eighty-three messages, most from people I had not spoken to in five years who had suddenly reappeared to ask what had happened. I did not respond to any of them. Brandon called me at 11 AM. His voice was calm. He said, "Thank you. I have known for three months. I had no proof. You gave me proof." I did not know what to say to that. He said, "I want you to know I don't hate you. I don't think you did a bad thing. I'm sorry it had to be you." And he hung up. I sat on my couch for the rest of that Sunday. I had done exactly what I had planned to do, and I had done it perfectly, and I did not know, for about six hours, what I was supposed to feel about it.