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slightest unexpected noise. She also had episodic periods of daydreaming, during which it was extremely difficult to get her to “snap out of it.” A doctor who saw her without knowing her history might have diagnosed her with the “absence” or “petit mal” form of epilepsy: she was that hard to reach during these episodes.
    I also learned that Sandy sometimes had aggressive, tantrum-like outbursts. Her foster family couldn’t find any pattern to these behaviors, couldn’t pinpoint what set them off. But they did report another set of “odd” behaviors: Sandy didn’t want to use silverware. Unsurprisingly, she was especially afraid of knives; but she also refused to drink milk, or even look at milk bottles. When the doorbell rang, she would hide like a skittish cat, sometimes so effectively that it took twenty minutes for her foster parents to find her. She could also be found, on occasion, hiding underneath a bed, behind a couch, in a cabinet under the kitchen sink, rocking and crying.

    So much for resilience. Sandy’s startle reaction alone told me that her stress-response systems had become sensitized. Testifying would immerse her in painful reminders of that terrible night. I had to get some sense of whether or not she could tolerate it. Though I didn’t want to, at some point in my initial visit I was going to have to probe her memory a little to see how she would react. But I comforted myself with the knowledge that a little pain now could help protect her from a lot of pain later, and might even help her begin the healing process.
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    I FIRST MET SANDY in a small room housed in a typical, sterile government building. It had been set up to be “child-friendly” with some child-size furniture, toys, crayons, coloring books and paper. A few cartoon figures had been painted on the walls, but “system” still screamed out from the tile floors and cinder-block construction. When I walked in, Sandy was sitting on the floor with some dolls around her. She was coloring. What first struck me, as it had when I first met Tina, was how small she was. I guessed she stood a bit less than four feet tall. She had huge, liquid brown eyes and long, thick, curly brown hair. On her neck were visible scars on both sides, from her ears to the middle of her throat. But they were much less noticeable than I had imagined they might be; the plastic surgeons had done a good job. As I walked in with Stan she stopped everything and stared at me, frozen.
    Stan introduced me. “Sandy, this is the doctor I told you about. He is going to talk with you, ok?” he asked anxiously. She didn’t move, not one millimeter. There was no change in her wary expression. In response Stan looked at me and back at her, gave a big smile and said in his best cheerful, kindergarten-teacher voice, “OK. Good. Well, I will leave you two together.” As he walked out I looked at him like he was nuts, surprised by how he’d dismissed Sandy’s lack of response to his question. When I looked back at Sandy her face wore the same expression that mine did. I shook my head, shrugged my shoulders, and gave a little smile. As if in a mirror, Sandy did the same.

    Aha! A connection! This was a good start, I thought. Don’t let it slip away. I knew if I walked toward this tiny girl—I’m pretty big—her sensitized alarm response would go crazy. Her surroundings were already unfamiliar enough—new adults, new place, new situation—I needed her to stay as calm as possible.
    â€œI want to color some too.” I said without looking at her. I wanted to be as predictable as possible and let her know what I was going to do step by step. No sudden moves. Make yourself smaller, I thought, get on the floor. Don’t look at her, don’t face her, use slow deliberate movements as you color. I sat down on the floor, a few feet away. I tried to make my voice as