The thirty days began on a Wednesday.
I knew this not because I marked it on anything or counted it in any formal way but because my body knew it the way it knew everything that mattered, through the specific atmospheric shift of a situation that had found its fixed point, its terminus, the date toward which all the moving pieces had been building and had now been given. The tribunal was in thirty days. The truth was going to be in a room in thirty days. Everything that had been in motion was going to arrive somewhere in thirty days.
The day had weight to it.
Not the anxious weight of uncertainty. Something more structural than that. The weight of a thing that was real and scheduled and could not be unmade and did not require any further decision about whether it was going to happen. It
