The morning of the screening I had been listening to my interview with Nancy Brasil, Brenae’s mother, marking the best quotes. I had earned Davi’s trust over several sessions, and their mother had warmed to the idea of my visiting Brenae’s hometown and talking with her. Nancy bore an eerie likeness to Brenae, with a rounder, older, less expressive face. It was clear she wanted to speak, but the act unraveled her. Long pauses trailed into unfinished sentences. I was about to excuse myself out of compassion when a dog barked loudly on the street outside and Nancy burst into a story about the girl her daughter had been.

One day, teenage Brenae had chased a growling dog away from a child, and then adopted the dog when its negligent owners wanted to get rid of it. She trained it herself. “The dog became a sweetheart, a real pal to the whole town,” said Nancy, “and Brenae was the one who’d given him the chance. She saw that his circumstances were not who he was, you know? And she changed them.”

She was smiling at the memory, but then her face quaked and she covered her eyes.

What does anyone say in those moments that’s of any use? I told her how sorry I was, my own voice breaking. Her hand fell away, and she raised her chin.

“The problem is that courage can look like anger to people,” she said, holding me in her full gaze, “until they actually understand the pain you’re feeling.”

At the threshold to Brenae’s studio, I listened to the quiet for a long time. Then I pulled out my recorder to capture it.

At quarter to eight, I clicked off my machine and was stowing it back in my purse when I heard someone say my name. I turned to see Zania de Wilde standing across from me, her arms folded, her head tilted back to regard my face. She wore a black suit with a high collar, and black boots that laced up her narrow calves.

“You’ve moved on, I hear,” she said, as if she’d researched a few things about me.

“In some ways,” I said. “How about you?”

She shrugged. “Still at LAAC.”

“How are your classes?” I said, hand on my recorder. Softly I clicked it on. I couldn’t use anything she said, but maybe I would want to hear it again.

“Like you actually care,” she said.

I asked if she was helping with Nelson’s case. He claimed he was not guilty of any assaults, only the illegal art trafficking.

“No,” she said. “But I believe him.”