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I said nothing. I had nothing. As I was about to gather myself and leave, she spoke again.

“The truth, Miss Jones. All I want is the truth. The real reason you want to work for me.”

Her eyes. They cut right through me. Through all the layers, carefully built, one over the other until I had a shell so thick nothing could touch it—nothing until the Queen. Until Magda Kenny.

And then I understood what she was asking. And it was harder than anything else I had ever had to say.

“Because I know.”

“Because you know what?” She was not letting me off easy. Not at all.

“Because I know what they are going through. Because I know what it’s like. Because it was me. They are me.”

She smiles then. The Queen graces me with a smile so bright and full of warmth, it could obfuscate the sun.

“Now we’re getting somewhere. I don’t need super-smart kids. I don’t want people who want to help because they’re on a mission to make the world better. I need people who know. People who can relate. People who’ll understand. And you, Miss Jones, fulfill those needs. But before I offer you the internship, I need you to understand one thing.”

“Okay …”

“You can’t save them all. Can you live with that?”

I knew the answer she was looking for was yes. But my head was shaking even before she finished the question. “No, I can’t.”

“I’ve been doing this for over thirty years. We lose some. You can’t stop it.”

“I can damn well try.”

“Miss Jones, it was a pleasure to meet you. You got yourself a job.”

I blink away the memory. “You don’t have any classes here, do you?” I ask.

Tommy is looking at the stairs with a determined look in his eyes. “Nope. Going to say hello to my brother. Catch you later.” He answers without looking at me and walks to the stairs.

* * *

I’ve worked for over a year under Magda. Didn’t take long to understand her nickname. She’s not Queen because of any sense of superiority or vanity. She’s Queen because she makes things happen. Where others fail, Magda creates small miracles. And some days a miracle was the only thing that kept us going.

Her keen eyes landed on me as soon as I walked into the cramped office.

“Miss Jones?” She never calls me Becca. Not unless something very serious was about to happen.

“Yes?”

“Could you please take some of these fliers and post them on bulletin boards around campus?” She hands me a folder and inside are about a dozen bright pink fliers. I look at them and freeze. I take a moment to find my voice again. “What is this?”

“It’s a new program to help victims of abuse. Completely anonymous. Riggins is one of thirty-two universities taking part in this program, and they asked for our help.”

The words on the paper float before me like a jumble of letters. I blink again and again, trying to make sense of what they say. The rapid tempo of my heart out of sync with my frozen state. I push myself to move, leaden feet drag on the carpeted floor.

IF YOU SPEAK, WE WILL HEAR YOU.

Every 98 seconds, someone is

sexually assaulted.

You Don’t Have to be a Victim.

Talk to us. We will listen.