Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would black out and wake up sore. My husband just laughed and said I was out of shape. After the fourth trip, I hid a voice recorder in my purse — and that night I heard a phone call that made me realize the blackouts had never been accidents.

And because sitting down and reading four pages at my own kitchen table, with him standing there, would have meant something.

He drove me to Vonda Prewitt’s office the following morning on the way to work.

I sat in that room for about eleven minutes. Fully awake. In a coat.

I gave that woman my thumb and my licence and I made conversation with her about the weather, and I have been told since that I was pleasant.

So the first appointment in Vonda Prewitt’s journal is not a crime committed against an unconscious woman.

It is me. Awake. In a chair, in a coat, with my bag on my knees.

Being pleasant to a notary about the weather.

And then there are the letters, which are worse.

My father’s structure throws off paper. It has to.

It is a registered entity. There are statutory notifications, and they go to the registered address.