The kidnapping story takes forty-five minutes to tell properly.
Not because Maya embellishes — she doesn't, she has never needed to, the actual facts are sufficient — but because Daniel asks questions. Good ones. The specific questions of someone who is paying attention and wants to understand the architecture of a thing rather than just its surface.
He asks about the timeline. About what she knew and when. About what it felt like to be moved from one location to another by people who considered her a variable rather than a person. About the moment she decided she wasn't going to fall apart about it until later, when falling apart would be appropriate rather than inconvenient.
"That's a very specific internal negotiation," he says. "Deciding when to feel something."
"It's a skill," she says. "Some people call it compartmentalization. I call it scheduling."
"Scheduling your feelings."
