The week before the trial was unnervingly calm. I went to classes. I worked on my archive. I even went to the plaza and ate an ice candy.
The frantic anxiety had been burned away during the preparation, leaving behind a still, cold pool of resolve. I had done everything I could.
I had told the truth. I had kept my promise. Now, all that was left was to stand up in that courtroom and tell it one last time. The storm was about to break, but in its eye, there was a strange, quiet peace. I was ready.