My memories of my rape are scattershot, like the disjointed images of a strange dream. The smooth curve of the Uber driver’s head. The crisscrossing shadows in the car. My friends and I were in the back of that car. It was late, sometime after 1 a.m. on a Saturday. We had all been drinking. We were going safely home. Until the moment it happened, I had done everything right. Almost everything.