In our late twenties, we manage to confront our own histories and find our rage, but soon realize our anger exists less because of the horrors themselves and more because of their mundanity. By this point we’ve tolerated and accepted the fact that “not okay” things happen every day. We recognize that Cole Craig essentially coerced us, and sure: He should probably rot in hell. Yet for both of us he’s a blip, background noise—his existence and wrongdoings rarely cross our minds. I hardly think about that night at all, and when I do, the sting isn’t because of what happened as much as because it
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