They shared a cab back to the dorm in silence. Claudia held Trevor’s elbow getting in, then she shut her eyes and leaned her forehead on the window. How drunk was she? How drunk was he? The club’s music buzzed in his ears, a pressing, insistent residue of the night. His body was awash in intoxicants; alcohol, sugar, nicotine, envy, anger, arousal.

Claudia let herself into her room and before she closed the door she whispered, “Thank you.” And then: “I’m sorry.” And then, again: “Thank you.”

The video popped up on Trevor’s phone the next evening. He was getting his backpack ready for Bible study when it came in as a text from a blocked number, sent at 5:37 p.m.

Claudia Castro is a whore

He pressed play, not really even thinking. The image was a close-up so extreme it took a moment for him to recognize what he was looking at. A woman’s mouth. Pubic hair. An erect penis. The camera pulled back and he saw that the woman was Claudia. Her eyes were closed, her hair obscuring much of her face. She was on her hands and knees and there was a guy in a gray T-shirt behind her. It was the kid he’d seen outside her door. The one with the guitar. Trevor heard the muted, rough sounds of bodies moving against each other. Then a voice: “Dude, she peed!” The camera swung around and there was Chad, the asshole from Ben’s party. He was bare chested, his face red and sweaty and smiling.

The first thing Trevor thought was, I have to show her this. And then, I can’t show her this. And then, I have to show this to somebody. And then, I can’t show this to anybody.

Five minutes later, Claudia knocked at his door. He saw in her face that whoever had sent it to him had sent it to her, too. And something about the way he looked must have told her the same. She walked in, sat on his sofa, and put her head in her hands. The sun was setting between two of the NYU housing towers outside his window, casting the cluttered room with a dramatic glow.

“I wonder if he sent it to anyone else,” Claudia whispered. “I wonder if it’s online.”

“Do you want me to check?”

She didn’t respond.

“Was that last Friday night?” he asked.

“I was really drunk.”

He wanted to say, I love you. He wanted to say, They will pay for this.

She noticed his backpack by the door. “Where are you going?”

“Church,” he said. A pause. “Wanna come?”