David's fingers dance around my bruise as light as feathers tickling my skin-a skater spinning around a frozen pond. His other hand is in my grasp, massaged and felt by my own mindless fingers and anxious movement. The results of my speech sit on my chest, and I know the weight won't budge until the majority opinion is heard tomorrow.

"You did very well," David tells me for the seventh time since I finished this morning. I spoke the final, improvised word, stepped off of the podium, returned to him, and it's the first thing he said in a proud hush.

"I think I'm ready to go home."

I rest...