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Imagine it's a scorching day in August. You're standing in front of the faded white facade of a massive government building.

You've already swept through the nicest shirt you own, but not because of the heat outside.

You're sweating because you don't want to be here.

As you pull open one of the building's giant glass doors, a frigid gust of AC freezes you in your tracks.

You do anything to avoid stepping inside. So you stall.

You hold the door for the elderly couple behind you. Then you wait for another couple and hold the door for them too.

Maybe you could just do this all day. Just stand here holding the door for people.

But no, you can't. You're here to testify in front of a congressional commission about something that happened to you many years ago.

Something you haven't talked about publicly before. You barely even talk about it privately.

This thing that happened, you've spent your whole life trying to leave it in the past.

But today, there's going to be a reckoning.

As you enter the cavernous hearing room, you're blinded by a bank of media lights that would put a Hollywood permit a shame.

There's no red carpet here. There's a long dius where officials in dark suits stare down at witnesses. Men and women like you.

You take your seat and listen to them.

People speaking out for the first time in their lives. They're thin, weary voices tie your stomach and knots and flood your eyes with tears.

And the witnesses from the quote unquote other side, they make your blood boil.

They talk about their loyalty and how they didn't have any choice in what they did to you.

After all these years, he still don't get it.

And then, finally, it's your turn. Your leg shake as you approach the microphone.

Why are you so nervous? You've spoken in public plenty of times. Heck, you do it for a living.

You keep telling yourself, just treat this as if it were another day at work. But it isn't.

...