I kept a file. I know how that sounds. I know it sounds calculated, cold, premeditated. But I grew up with a mother who was a paralegal, and my mother taught me a sentence when I was twelve years old that I have never forgotten. She said: "If you think someday you might need to prove it, start writing it down now." So I wrote it down. Every comment. Every touch of my shoulder that lasted half a second too long.

Every time he told me he thought about me over the weekend. Every time he said something wasn't appropriate for the office, with a small laugh, as if the joke between us was that the inappropriate thing existed at all. Six months of this. Seventy-eight pages. And then three things happened in the same week that made me realize I could not keep filing things in a folder and pretending it was going to fix itself. The first was that a woman named Rachel on another floor pulled me aside in the bathroom and told me, "Be careful with Anthony." I asked her why. She said, "Just. Be careful." She would not say more.