“He started talking—softly, in a singsong. How did I like working at Achievement House? Was I finding satisfaction? Had I thought about career choices? Maybe teaching would be good for me because I was clearly a people person. I didn’t say much, he really didn’t want answers. It was a monologue—droning, hypnotic. Then he stopped talking and I tensed up, and he said, ‘Don’t be nervous, Allison. We’re all friends, here.’ Nothing happened for what seemed to be forever. Then suddenly I felt his finger on my cheek, pressing, stroking, and he said something about my skin—how clean and fresh it was, how nice it was to see a young lady who cared about her hygiene.”

She caught hold of her hair with one hand and tugged hard. Then both hands slapped flat on the desk and she was staring at me—daring me to look away.

“He kept stroking,” she said. “It was annoying—ticklish—and I twisted my head away. And then he chuckled and I looked up and I saw that it hadn’t been his finger on my cheek. It was his thing—oh, listen to me, like a child—it was his penis, and he was rubbing it against my cheek, pushing. I was so freaked out that my mouth dropped open and that was the worst thing to do because he chuckled again and in it went and all of a sudden he was holding the back of my head with his other hand, the hand with the cigar, and the smoke wrapped around me, and he forced himself deeper into my mouth and I couldn’t breathe, I was gagging. But my eyes were open, for some reason I kept them open, and I could see his white shirt and his tie—a striped tie, blue and black—and the bottom of his face, all that pink flab, quivering, his double chin and he was rocking on his heels again, but in a different way and the cigar smoke was burning my eyes and I started to cry.”

She turned icy and still. Didn’t move for a long time. “He didn’t come. Thank God for that. I managed to wrench free, first, made it to the door, ran out, never looked back. Drove home like a zombie, called in sick. Which wasn’t much of a stretch because I felt sick as a dog. For the next few days, I took to bed. Threw up when my mother wasn’t listening, lay there feeling degraded and scared and worst of all stupid—replaying it over and over, blaming myself. For the tan and the dress and not being on guard—I know it’s never the victim’s fault, God knows how many times I’ve told that to patients. But . . .”

“You were seventeen,” I said.