Title:
SURVIVORS’ DAWN
Author: Ashley Warren
Publisher: Chaparral Press LLC
Pages: 316
Genre: Contemporary Fiction / Women’s Fiction / New Adult Fiction
BOOK
BLURB:
A
heroic story of three college women’s fight for justice
At
first glance, Brooke Flanagan, Lauren Le, and Nikki
Towers have little in common:
a churchgoing virgin, a party girl, and a resident advisor. But they all
have their own dreams, dreams that can be shattered in a single night.
When
freshman Brooke Flanagan first arrives at the university, she’s
excited to escape her sheltered life in a Southern town. Lauren Le, a
scholarship student, likes to have a good time, but she never disappoints her
hardworking, single mom. Nikki Towers
always goes her own way. Confident, poised, and wealthy, Nikki’s biggest
problem is what to do with her future.
Into
these girls’ lives walks Colin Jordan. Colin is the son of a private equity
titan, captain of his club basketball team, and a brilliant pre-law student. He
is also a sexual predator.
Survivors’
Dawn relates a journey of heroes: the strength, courage,
and determination of the victims as they fight to survive; the obstacles they
face in their pursuit of justice; and finally, with its conclusion, hope for a
future where students can pursue their dreams without fear of being attacked.
A
contemporary novel, Survivor’s Dawn wrestles with issues of
privilege, sexual assault, and the responsibility of academic institutions to
protect their students.
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At nine o’clock on
a Saturday evening in September, Colin Jordan, a senior, sat at an outdoor
table at Jolene’s, a sandwich place in the Triangle. A popular pedestrian
plaza, the Triangle was lined with shops, bars, and restaurants. The open-air
center was paved with brick and dotted with mature trees. As Colin ate a Rueben
with chips and sipped a Diet Coke, he thought through his evening plans. He
would have opted for an IPA, but he needed to keep his mind sharp.
Colin believed, due largely to the brilliant example his
father provided, that life’s endeavors could and should be assessed in terms of
investment and return; for example, Colin had invested several hundred hours to
raise his LSAT score. As a result, on his second attempt his score climbed from
170 to 176, an improvement that assured his acceptance into an Ivy League
school instead of one of the second-tier programs. This differentiation in
pedigree would afford him a valuable advantage for the rest of his life, so the
investment in preparing for the test, while painful to endure, yielded an
attractive return.
Investment and return. Colin had applied the paradigm
successfully in many areas of his life: sports (basketball and boxing), Greek
society, and what he considered a uniquely laudable achievement: his efficient
approach to sexual gratification.
Colin realized that in terms of opportunity he was living in
an enchanted age created by the combination of promiscuity (supercharged by
social media) and the propensity of newly liberated young people to consume
excessive amounts of alcohol.
But here again, investment and return played a role; after
considerable thought Colin had developed a framework for partitioning his
sexual partners into three distinct categories.
The first category, casual hookups, required almost no
investment; they satisfied his physical need but provided little intrinsic
reward.
The second category, which Colin had dubbed “this evening’s
entertainment,” required an investment of several hours to find and compel a
girl (by needs both promiscuous and intoxicated) to return with him to his
condo. This last step, no matter how inebriated the girl, sometimes required an
extra nudge. Colin found that the more investment required to secure these
conquests, the greater his return in terms of psychological satisfaction.
But the third category offered the greatest prize. Colin
first had to find the right candidate, in and of itself a challenge, for the
girl had to be exquisitely beautiful and
innocent. Once he had identified his quarry, Colin was prepared to invest
considerable time and ingenuity in her seduction, and to that point in his
life, he knew of no greater joy than the moment of consummation. To date Colin
had succeeded in the third category only twice.
Nevertheless, to achieve an acceptable return he had to
closely manage how much time he invested on each girl, and this discipline
demanded that Colin, on occasion, take shortcuts. He knew lesser elements of
society would view these shortcuts with a skeptical eye. He did not share their
view. The girls would without question acquiesce to their natural instincts and
his desires, given sufficient time.
But still, there was an aspect of the enterprise that felt
like stealing, like pocketing a candy bar in a convenience store, and the mere
recollection of that sensation made his heart beat faster.
In between bites of the sandwich Colin watched
girls stroll past, mostly in groups. He mentally catalogued his prospects:
queen bees, athletes, sorority sisters, free spirits, and the party girls. The
girls dressed to attract attention, with low necklines stretched tight across
breasts, or short, tight skirts. Some wore skinny jeans with manufactured tears
in the fabric. Many wore high heels.
Some of the girls had pre-gamed to manage their
budget for the evening. They talked constantly as they walked, excited to be
young and embarking on an evening of possibility.
He searched for a particular type of girl, someone
who might be persuaded by his looks, stature, and generosity. He sought a girl
who fit his second category, for he had the full evening to invest; but he
absolutely had to have his desire fulfilled that night and would settle, if
compelled, for a casual hookup.
One girl walked on the edge of a group of seven,
tall, with high heels. She had big hips and wore a tight black skirt with a
fuchsia top. What was that? She had a round face and black hair, distinctly
Asian. She had a sexy walk, not fake sexy like the girls who learned everything
from the Internet, but naturally sexy, like an animal in search of a mate.
He checked his watch. Nine fifteen. How long would they stay in the Triangle?
Four or five hours. They’d have dinner at the Italian place or the gourmet
burger spot, a trendy restaurant that wasn’t expensive. They would split the
check. After dinner they would try one of the bars in the Triangle, buy a
cocktail, and hope to find boys who would treat them to more drinks.
He spied a second group of girls with potential
and found three of them exciting. One in particular wore a top with navy and
white stripes. She, too, walked with a sexy sway. As Colin watched her, his
penis grew semi-erect.
“How was the sandwich?” asked his waitress.
He hadn’t noticed her approach. She wore a black
skirt and a white collared button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled past her
thin wrists.
“Excellent. The sauce and sauerkraut were just as
you described…awesome. Great recommendation. Thank you.”
She smiled, which illuminated her eyes, brown eyes
so big he could stare at them for minutes at a time.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she said.
What a peculiar question. Yes, oh yes. There was something else. He imagined her
wearing a black spaghetti-strap top and nothing else. She faced away from him,
bent over, her hands on a table. She was skinny, with bony hips. He loved that,
too.
“No, thanks. Just the check when you get a
chance.”
He left a 30 percent tip. He always left a big
tip, because hardworking people like the waitress deserved to earn a living
wage.
Colin was perfectly sober. He would spend two
hours studying at the library before returning to the Triangle.
* * *
At eleven thirty
Lauren Le stood with her new friends at the Homestead,
a lively bar in the Triangle. Everyone talked at once, shouting to be heard
above the music. The Homestead had
space for a couple hundred people, with a large square bar in the middle,
dozens of stand-up tables, and two dance floors. The constant beat and the bass
notes coursed through Lauren’s veins.
She took a slug of the vodka soda.
Pace
yourself, Lauren.
It had taken her a month to get comfortable on
campus. She had grown up in Irving, Texas,
outside of Dallas, and had never
traveled this far to the east before starting school here. Some of her high
school friends had gone to college, but none as far away as Lauren. They fell
short when it came to grades and test scores and ambition.
Lauren was the result of a short-lived and
reckless affair between a Vietnamese immigrant, Kim Le, who worked in a nail
salon, and a tall Texan who lit out for the oil rigs as soon as Kim missed her
first period. Kim had never heard from him again, and she seldom mentioned him
to Lauren. As Lauren grew older she became curious and would sometimes ask
about her father.
“I was stupid,” Kim had said. “I tried for a big
dream with a big white man. But he was no good.”
When Lauren pressed for more information, Kim
would grow adamant.
“You forget about him. You need to study.”
If Kim wasn’t working at the salon, a short
distance from their apartment, she was doing piecework for a local tailor. Kim
never paid Lauren an allowance, but she let her work a part-time job so long as
she kept her grades near perfect.
With a tired mother and an absent father, Lauren
was forced to learn how to have a good time on her own, and at that she had
excelled. As a senior with a full figure, a fun nature—her hobbies were
cosplay, online gaming, and organizing flash mobs—and a curious mind about
partying and sex, Lauren had always attracted guys.
She had drunk one cocktail at the Italian
restaurant and started with a shot of tequila at the Homestead.
When they had first arrived, the girls danced as a group for nearly an hour,
not allowing the dearth of boys to deter them from getting the party started.
Lauren took a break, her head buzzing slightly
from the alcohol and the dancing. Cool air from the duct above her whisked away
the perspiration.
God, college
is fun.
The bar began to fill, and boys drifted by their
group in ones and twos. A sophomore from New Jersey
bought her another drink. He was her height, with red hair, and talked fast in
a northern accent. He was almost cute, except for a big pimple and his lack of
coordination. They tried dancing but couldn’t make it work. Afterward, he told
her his dream of becoming a veterinarian. Snore.
Lauren spied one of the resident advisors from
Roxbury Hall, Nikki Towers,
watching her from the other side of the bar. The girls had approached Nikki
when they first entered the Homestead,
nervous because they had used fake IDs to get past the bouncer. They needn’t
have worried. Nikki’s nickname was Cool RA. She had a reputation for doing her
own thing in her own way and never traveling in a crowd. Cool RA had wished
them a good time but advised them not to get wasted. (“I’m your RA, not your
babysitter.”) Nevertheless, when Lauren caught Nikki’s eye, she could tell Cool
RA was not impressed with the New Jersey
kid.
“So…,” he said, “do you want to come over to the
frat house and listen to music? I’ve got some killer weed.”
“Oh…well…like…”
His eyes were glazed and his shoulders swayed,
like a five-year-old on a bicycle. Lauren wasn’t a fan of just-met sex. If he
had been gorgeous, like Liam Hemsworth, then maybe. Wait, maybe? Not maybe.
Definitely! But she would not have sex with New Jersey,
at least not tonight. “You know, I’m gonna hang with my friends a while longer.
Thanks, though.”
“Not a problem. Catch you later.”
He leaned toward her as if expecting something.
She hesitated, unsure, and then offered to shake hands. He only got about ten
steps before he stopped to chat up another girl.
“What did he
want?” said Caitlyn, her roommate. Caitlyn’s face turned sour as Lauren told
her of the invite to smoke pot. “Eewww! That guy?”
They laughed. Lauren was light as a feather. She
could party all night.
* * *
Nikki Towers
sat at the bar and sipped her second glass of Sauvignon Blanc, wanting to make
it last. She’d budgeted only three drinks, and the buzz from the one-hitter
she’d smoked on the way over had dissipated. She would have liked to drink
more, but she couldn’t afford the hangover.
She watched the girls from Roxbury Hall, laughing,
talking fast, and dancing. Boys started to arrive and wandered through the bar
searching for girls they knew, or new girls to meet. One of them tried to buy
Nikki a drink. She politely declined and then ignored him until he vacated the
stool at her side. She hadn’t come to the Homestead
to find a boyfriend. Sure, she liked the feel of the wooden bar, sanded smooth
with a semi-gloss finish, and she liked to watch the bartenders, a man and a
woman, as they hustled drinks, swiped credit cards, and matched the rhythm of
the crowd. But Nikki had primarily come out on the off chance she would stumble
into a solid hookup with someone she already knew.
The lingering stress of a long week of classes and
countless bullshit RA duties had worn her down. She didn’t want a boyfriend—too
many time constraints—but she craved the physical closeness of a naked man, the
thrill that lovemaking brought, and the intimate cuddling that came after. Good
sex relaxed her. She glanced at her phone. She could try Tinder, but usually
the guys were drunk, or less attractive than their profile, or just plain rude.
And sex with a stranger carried certain risks. Much better to go with someone
she knew.
She looked back at the Roxbury group. Lauren Le,
the girl in the pink top, laughed and tipped her glass back. They all had to
learn their own way, to suffer through some hangovers before figuring out their
style. Most of the freshmen went through the same pattern, but not Nikki. She
had arrived at college fully mature, her hard partying days behind her, her
virginity surrendered in a neighbor’s basement in tenth grade.
Nikki was self-aware, a solid B student with a
high street IQ, the daughter of a successful interracial couple in St.
Louis. Her father had begun his career as a plumber in
the western suburbs but soon started a plumbing supply company, which he grew
rapidly until it earned a major share of the market in four states. He’d
eventually sold out to a conglomerate for over a hundred million dollars, which
meant they were rich, but that didn’t stop him from insisting that Nikki get a
part-time job at school, hence the RA gig. He said it would build leadership
qualities. Right.
Her mother, unquestionably the life of the party,
was a white blues singer who sang with several local bands around St.
Louis. She had met Nikki’s father through a drummer
she performed with on occasion.
Neither of her parents had allowed the business
windfall to change how they lived: her father worked for the conglomerate as a
regional manager, and her mother sang three nights a week. They both seemed
solidly comfortable with their lives, which made Nikki a bit nervous, because
she had no idea what she wanted to
do.
Eventually, she had chosen economics because she
liked the courses, particularly the macro stuff, but the major provided no easy
career choices. Some econ grads became bankers. Others became baristas. She
still had a year to work it out, but uncertainty bothered Nikki. She liked to
have a plan.
* * *
Colin logged a couple of hours at the library and
then briefly stopped by his condo to freshen up. After that, he tried Raven’s
Way, a popular bar in the Triangle. It was almost midnight,
and the energy of the crowd had begun to climb. Students crammed the dance
floor, enticed by the pop music. They moved constantly, as if they were a
single many-limbed entity.
Colin scanned the bar and spotted the girl in the
navy and white top. The stripes ran horizontally, about two inches thick. The
sleeves were three-quarter length and carried the stripes with them. Tight brunette
curls sprang from her head and ended before they touched her shoulders. She
stood at a cocktail table with two other girls and talked in an animated
fashion, her arms moving constantly. He walked straight to her.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He stood erect with his
shoulders back, wearing an open-collared white shirt and designer jeans. He
looked right at her, his gaze unwavering, not acknowledging the other women,
his attention reserved solely for her.
Navy stood dumbstruck, her eyes wide, unblinking, and
took a moment to scan his upper body, strong neck, and face. “Uh…sure.”
From that point, the action unfolded as he
expected. He helped her decide what to drink and then extended the offer to the
other women. They declined, perhaps hesitant to interfere with Navy’s good
fortune. He went to the bar for the drinks, giving the girls some time to
confer, and by the time he returned the other two had gone to dance.
It was obvious to Colin when they introduced
themselves that she didn’t recognize his name. No matter. He’d work that into
the conversation at the right time.
She was too sober. He’d suspected as much when
they first spoke, so he had asked the bartender for a double Manhattan.
She nibbled on the cherry and took a big sip. Another couple of those and she’d
be ready.
He asked about her intended major. Education. He
inquired about her other interests. Movies. Politics. He laughed at the right
moments and touched her elbow where the navy met the white. She hoped to study
abroad her junior year.
“What country?” he said.
“Italy.”
“A beautiful place. I once sat on a balcony in Sorrento
overlooking the Gulf of Naples;
no place on earth should be so beautiful. I couldn’t speak.”
“Sorrento.”
“Have you been?”
“No…never.”
“You’ll love it. Like another drink?”
“Um.” She looked at her glass, which had less than
half an inch left. “Sure.”
He hustled to the bar again, but by the time he
returned, her friends were back from the dance floor. Both of them, the tall
one and the blond girl in glasses, were texting madly.
“We’re thinking of going to a party at Holcombe,”
said Navy.
“It’s supposed to be a rager,” said the tall girl.
“You could join us,” said Navy, her face lifted
toward him, her lips slightly parted.
The tall one raised her eyebrows, still texting;
the blonde studied Colin closely, as if trying to figure something out.
Colin said, “I’m not into freshman dorm parties.”
He glanced at the blonde; she listened closely. “But you could stay here. We’ll
talk more about Italy,
have another drink, and then I’ll drive you back to the dorm.”
Navy considered his proposal, leaning toward
acceptance, her face framed by impossible curls, so cute, but then the chick in
glasses touched her elbow.
“You need to stick with us,” she said. “That was
the plan, remember? You two exchange digits and meet for coffee sometime.”
After they left, Colin trolled the bar but found
no other prospects, so he went to the Homestead.
* * *
He gave his eyes a minute to adjust to the
darkness. It was nearing one o’clock,
and the crowd had begun to crest, both of the dance floors jammed with sweating
bodies. Tropical house music bumped from the speakers. He spotted Nikki
Towers sitting alone at the bar; it
was the first time he’d seen her all year.
He had slept with Nikki four or five times, the
first when she was a freshman, but Nikki was no rookie in the bedroom, not even
then, her talents honed before she arrived at the university. He considered her
a near equal in that regard.
His fingers had thrilled to skim her light brown
skin, the surface unblemished. Her figure enhanced her beauty even further; the
top of her head came to his chin, and her arms and legs were strong from yoga,
her breasts and ass firm.
She came from wealth, not big money like him, but
enough to live well; however, at the insistence of her father she drove a
mid-size Nissan SUV and worked as an RA at Roxbury Hall. Colin had asked his
own father about the plumbing company her family had owned. Francis had heard
of it, said they’d tried to get in but had been priced out of the deal.
“Yo, stranger,” she said as he came to her side.
He kissed her on the lips and slipped his hand to her back, strong, as always.
In addition to yoga, Nikki favored the odd sports: mountain biking, rock
climbing, and snowboarding.
“You look great,” he said.
“Thanks.”
He ordered a light beer for himself, pacing his
consumption, and another wine for Nikki. They talked a while about nothing
much: the forthcoming elections, their summers, and their respective plans for
the year. Between sentences he searched the room.
“Here to check out the newbies?” she said.
He gave her a you-caught-me-in-the-act smile. “Well, you know, it’s my last
year.”
“Okay, but if you crash and burn, I’ll be here a
while longer. We could go to your place and…listen to jazz.”
Nikki would be a hell of a consolation prize; it
was tempting. He recalled the lighter color of her breasts, which contrasted
with her tanned arms and shoulders. But he had principles, objectives, and he
hadn’t given the night enough of a chance, so he kissed Nikki again and then
toured the room. That’s when he met Lauren Le. She was alone at a stand-up
table.
The black skirt looked even better up close,
pulled tight across her gorgeous ass, and the fuchsia top glowed in the black
light. Her face—framed with fine black hair, her lips full and her skin like
porcelain—made his heart jump.
He used the same approach as with Navy, and it
worked just as well, only Lauren had had more to drink. She talked loudly,
laughed a lot, and soon asked if he wanted to dance.
She came alive on the dance floor, whipping her
hair and twisting her hips and shoulders. He watched from all angles as she
spun around. She used the crowded floor as an excuse to dance close, and
flashed him a smile whenever their bodies came into contact. They danced enough
to perspire, a thin film appearing on her upper lip that he found exciting.
Back at the table, she finished her drink and
asked if he could get some water. As he returned from the bar he saw her
texting. Her fingers flew until he reached her side.
He ran through his standard questions about
academics, hobbies, and dreams. He asked about her home, and she lamented the
boredom of Irving, Texas.
Many of her friends had remained in the Dallas
area to attend local schools or work in retail or construction. When he
mentioned his summer internship in London,
her eyes grew big.
He was about to suggest another drink when two of
her friends returned with two boys in tow, guys they knew. The boys had offered
to walk them back to Roxbury Hall, and they were ready to leave.
“I thought we could have a nightcap,” said Colin.
“I can drive you to Roxbury after.”
Her words came more slowly now, enunciated with
great care. She pulled him to one side and leaned softly against him, holding
his arm.
“Just so we’re clear,” she said, “I’m not going to
have sex with you tonight.”
“Of course not.”
“You know…maybe someday, but not tonight.”
She turned back to her friends and announced that
she already had a ride. The three girls huddled in a tight circle. Colin asked
the boys where they were from and smiled politely at their answers, his ear
tuned to the women. They giggled. Lauren said, “No,” and one of the others
said, “Whatever.” And then they were gone, leaving Colin with Lauren.
The Homestead
crowd had thinned considerably although a few stubborn dancers remained on the
floor. Colin and Lauren moved to the bar itself, taking two stools. Nikki had
already left.
Colin ordered Negronis in tall glasses, and Lauren
got up to visit the restroom. When she had gone he gulped a third of her drink
and then glanced around the room. No one was watching. He took a small flask
from his back pocket and poured three ounces of Everclear into Lauren’s drink.
The liquid was ninety percent alcohol, the equivalent of four regular
cocktails. The strong flavors of Campari and sweet vermouth would disguise the
extra booze. Lauren was close to hammered already. It wouldn’t take much to put
her over the edge.
On her way back from the restroom he found her
even more attractive than when he’d first spotted her six hours earlier. Her
hips and breasts hinted of licentious potential. The bartender had turned off
the black light so her fuchsia top no longer glowed, but when she arrived at
his side and turned into the stool, his breath caught at the sight of her tight
skirt.
“Now,” she said, a little too loudly, “where were
we?”
* * *
Colin’s condo wasn’t that big, less than a
thousand square feet, but it was more than he needed. He had been content to
stay in the frat house, but his mother had lambasted the place on her last
visit—called it a roach haven—and insisted he move out his senior year. Over
the summer she had overseen the complete remodeling of the condo. They’d torn
down the walls to create one large room with an upgraded kitchen (Sub-Zero refrigerator,
Wolf range, and green granite countertops), a high-end sound system, classic
but comfortable furniture, and a platform bed. They’d expanded the bathroom to
create space for a giant walk-in shower and a freestanding tub. Honestly, it
was too ostentatious for Colin, and was more his mother’s style, but he had to
admit that living alone had its advantages.
Colin sat naked in a plush armchair, temporarily
sated, and considered Lauren. She lay nude across the bed, on her side,
sleeping, one knee pulled up toward her chest, the other leg almost straight, a
sheet draped over her torso. Her hair covered most of her face. Gravity pulled
her heavy breasts; one rested on the mattress and the second nestled against
its twin.
Colin relished Lauren, admiring her dark-brown
nipples. He replayed in his mind everything he’d done to her, the various
positions he’d tried. Was he done for the night? He looked at his penis,
flaccid now with a light pink tinge.
It was three
thirty in the morning. She’d floundered in his car, almost
completely out. In the garage, he patted her face to wake her enough to walk
in. He’d once had to take a girl to the emergency room, so he knew to watch her
carefully.
With experience he’d learned what a girl could
take, how to read their subtle noises and the movements they made if they were
about to vomit. Lauren’s size helped her process the extra alcohol, and she
hadn’t thrown up—much better that way, far less messy.
He liked it best when they were semiconscious,
like Lauren, generally not aware of what was happening but still reacting. She
had moaned a few times. At one point he could swear she moaned in pleasure.
Lauren had experience with sex. He knew that. He’d
had no trouble and, of course, he’d used a condom. He kept a drawer full of
condoms.
He was a thief in the night, a modern-day cat
burglar pursuing jewels of a different sort, and his nerves burned with the
thrill of his success. Few women, he knew, would acquiesce to his wishes after
a single conversation. (“Just so we’re clear, I’m not going to have sex with
you tonight.”) It took time—dinners, movies, concerts—but he always got there.
And after a couple of carnal encounters they would urge him to make a
commitment. In essence, they wanted him to lie to them, and to what end? If he
made any kind of commitment, exclusivity, for example, they would fall in love
with him. Soon they’d angle for a longer-term proposal—“Let’s go public”—and if
he succumbed to that demand, they’d fantasize about him asking the even more
preposterous question, “Will you marry me?”
It was absurd. He’d endured that torture already, once in high school and
twice in college, during his freshman and sophomore years. To make matters
worse, the girls suffered when he broke up with them. A long-term commitment?
Why did they even want that? It was stupid.
The express route was a better approach for all
concerned. Lauren got laid. She may not have realized it at the time, but she
still got laid. And he got laid. Fuck, did he ever get laid.
Of course, the mainstream would judge him harshly,
but what about his family? What would his mother say? The materially gluttonous
Sharon Jordan, a blue-blooded debutante from Northern Virginia,
had hit the jackpot when she met Francis. She would avert her eyes and say,
“What a mess! Clean up, Colin, and escort this young woman home.” On the other
hand, his father, with a knowing smirk, would nod and say, “Enjoy it, Colin. A
young man should sow his oats before settling down to make money and build a
legacy.”
Colin chuckled. Enjoy it.
About the Author
The
unending accounts of sexual assault on college campuses compelled me to write Survivors’
Dawn.
My
goal in writing the novel was NOT to focus on the act itself, but instead, to
write of the victim’s journey, to tell a story about the strength, courage, and
determination of survivors, to describe the difficulties they face in their
pursuit of justice, and finally, to offer hope for a future where students can
pursue their dreams without fear of being attacked.
As
Lady Gaga’s “Til It Happens to You” implies, non-victims can never truly know
how it feels to be assaulted, but we can try to empathize, and we can try to
help. Awareness is key to reducing the incidence of sexual assault on campus.
Please do your part by taking the It's On Us pledge and contributing to
organizations that are fighting on the front lines.
Thank
you to readers who give me encouragement. It means so much to me. Word of mouth
is an incredible thing, so thank you also for telling your friends about Survivors'
Dawn.
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