You see it sometimes, the tremble. Not a shiver from cold, no, but a subtle vibration in the hands, often hidden. A man, fifties perhaps, leading a quarterly review, hands clasped underneath the table, but you *know*. You understand that particular tremor, the kind that isn’t physical but a symptom of the psychic wounds a man carries, often concealed under a veneer of competence. It’s a silent, almost imperceptible surrender, a tell that even the most disciplined among us, those who’ve learned to compartmentalize the most heinous of experiences, can’t quite control. I mean I don't even — whatever. It makes you wonder what precise combination of fear and absolute self-control is warring within them at that very moment.