I went to HR that afternoon.

A nice woman named Beth listened to the whole thing. She took notes. Then she put down her pen and sighed.

“Abby, I believe you. I really do. But it's a shared team document, and Trevor's your manager. Managers present their team's work all the time. If you make a formal complaint against a senior analyst a week before a board meeting…” She shook her head. “It'll be your word against his. And you're leaving in five weeks.”

At lunch the next day, I told the other interns.

Jason, from Princeton, shrugged.

“That's how it works,” he said. “Seniors take credit. Juniors do the work. My dad says it's the same at every company in America. You just have to wait your turn.”

Only Kayla was angry.

“That's disgusting,” she said. “He can't just steal your report.”

“He already did,” I said.

That night, in my tiny rented room in Chicago, I lay on my bed and cried. Not because of Trevor. Not even because of my name.

Because I'd driven three hours home and sat at five in the morning in my grandmother's window, counting customers. And I'd done it so nobody would ever know.