By Renee Gurley | Contributing Columnist

I look up as slivers of steel and mirrored glass slice the muted sunlight. West 28th Street and 6th Avenue. Morning. A walk in Manhattan. Far from the creosote-lined arroyos I call home near Joshua Tree.

I pinch myself to see if this is a dream. Nope. I am in New York City.

This journey has not been linear.

Its origin lay on a dirt road in the Andes where three men jumped out of a weed-tangled gully, beat, raped, robbed, and left me for dead. My broken face went viral. A nationally televised trial in Bolivia. I won despite a 1% chance.

Long story — one that’s shaped me since.

I’ve spent over a decade sculpting this story into a book I hope to publish — which is why I’m here, walking up the Avenue of the Americas.

I’m doing reconnaissance in

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