That was nine months ago. Since then, we’ve created an entire team focused on the impromptu meeting Brian and I had in that conference room. We’ve formed continuous working relationships with the kinds of government law enforcement agencies that boast three-letter acronyms. We’ve had test runs, new hires, and countless other meetings. We’ve seen arrests and sentencings. We’ve provided testimony in court and invaluable information to investigations.

My own role changed to heading up this new special projects team. And to preserve the integrity of this project, this special projects team works largely behind-the-scenes and out of the limelight. We don’t appear on the company website, and our Twitter profile photos show inanimate objects instead of our actual faces. Brian and I are also the bridge between the team and law enforcement, with regular meetings and status updates, making sure we’re always working within not only their parameters, but those of the prosecuting attorneys. No one wants our hard work to go to waste because of missing evidence or even a hint of entrapment.

Here, now, in this media room, this isn’t our first rodeo. It’s not even our second or third rodeo. Over the past nine months, I’ve been 15-year-old Libby and 16-year-old Kait and 14-year-old Ava. I’ve been a studious sophomore contemplating bangs and a lacrosse player being raised by her aunt and an excitable junior eager for prom.

At this point, we’re seasoned veterans — but this is our first time using a persona this young. Tonight, my chest is tightly bound and my language reads significantly less mature.

Tonight, I am 11-year-old Bailey.

“Here we go,” I say to the room.

“You can do it, Sloane,” Reid says to me, patting my shoulder woodenly, but still assuredly. Reid’s chin is stern and she’s staring intently ahead. An attorney with a background in criminal law, Reid moved to the private sector and joined Bark when we launched this project. With a knowledge of law and a background in dealing with some gnarly crimes, Reid has been a welcome addition to the team. To an outsider, a shoulder pat might seem stiff, but from Reid, it feels like genuine care and support.

Pete — former military, now private security — who is quite literally three times my size, sits in the front living room. Tonight is certainly low risk, but on the days that have felt significantly scarier, he affords us all a little peace of mind.

I upload the photo to Instagram — a generic, innocuous selfie of Bailey with an ear-to-ear smile — and caption it.

v excitedd to see my friends this weekend at carly’s party! Ilysm!! followed by a string of emojis and a #friends hashtag

The photo publishes on Instagram and we wait quietly for something on the big screen to change.

This part never takes long. It’s always unnervingly fast.

At the beginning of the week, on the very first night as Bailey, two new messages came in under a minute after publishing a photo. We sat mouths agape as the numbers pinged up on the screen — 2, 3, 7, 15 messages from adult men over the course of two hours. Half of them could be charged with transfer of obscene content to a minor. That night, I had taken a breather and sat with my head in my hands.

Nine months of this, and we still continue to be stunned by the breadth of cruelty and perversion we see. I imagine this trend will continue tonight.

“Incoming,” Avery says, and we all look up at the TV. The Instagram notifications show that Bailey has three new requests for conversation.

“Hi! I was just wondering how long you’ve been a model for?”

“lol! im not a model,” I type quickly, hitting send.

“No!” he types, full of false incredulity. “You’re lying! If not, you should be a model. You’re so PRETTY.”

@ XXXastrolifer appears to be in his early 40s, but tells Bailey he’s 19. When she tells him she’s only 11, he doesn’t flinch.

The next message is from another man who greets Bailey harmlessly enough.

“Hi! How are you doing tonight?”

“Hi im good hbu”

“I’m doing alright, thank you. You are a very beautiful girl.”

I hear Josh next to me mutter. “Like clockwork.”

“Wow, thank u!”

“It’s true. I love your pictures on here. Does your mom and dad let you have a boyfriend yet?”

Bailey says no, but also, it’s not something they talk about a lot. I poll the parents in the room. They agree. Getting a boyfriend isn’t top of mind for an 11-year-old.

“Maybe I can be your Instagram bf if you would like? Up to you.”

I pause to respond to @ XXXastrolifer. The conversation ends like most of them do — in under five minutes, he sends Bailey a video to show himself masturbating.

“Do you like that? Have you seen one of those before?”

I turn my attention back to @ XXXthisguy66, the would-be Instagram boyfriend. In a matter of minutes, it escalates from “An Instagram boyfriend means we can chat with each other, send selfies back and forth, and just be there for each other” to “Since we are together, are you ready to send sexy pics to each other?”

She’s 11, and doesn’t quite know what he means. He sends a photo of his erect penis, requests a photo of her shirtless, and assures her that he can teach her how to proceed.

“Well, a lot of boyfriends like it when their girlfriend give them a blowjob. Do you know what that means?”

“No I dont.”

“That means you take the dick in your hand and then you put your mouth over it and you suck on it like you would suck on your thumb.”

“I dont get it,” Bailey types back.

“You take my dick. You put it in your mouth, and you suck on it.”

“God,” Reid interjects, and I look at her. “A child’s first sex talk shouldn’t be with a man who wants to rape her.”

I turn back to the screen.

“But why?”

“Some girls like it, but it feels really good to the boy. That’s just what a boy likes. Now what a boy and a girl really like together is if I put my dick in between your legs and push it inside you. That is called sex. Or fucking.”

“Oh. I learned about sex”

“Whenever you get a chance, send me a picture of you without your shirt on, or send me a picture of in between your legs. I would really like that.”

“Like what kind of picture? In between my legs?”

“You know your vagina? Or some people call it a pussy. I would like to see it. Because that’s where my dick goes. But I would like to see your chest too.”

“I dont really have boobs yet,” Bailey replies. She doesn’t. She wears a training bra for the ritual and camaraderie of training-bra-wearing, but she doesn’t really need one. Not yet.

“It’s ok. I’m sure you still look great though. I would still suck on your nipples.”

“I’m not good at taking body pics.”

“It’s ok. Can you send me a picture of you sucking on your finger? That way I can imagine you giving me a blowjob like we talked about earlier. I’ll send you another pic of my dick.”

He does.

I exit the conversation with @ XXXastrolifer to see another nine requests pending. My phone rings loudly through the TV speakers, startling all of us. It’s an incoming Instagram video call from a new would-be abuser.

I make a snap decision to take it, drop my phone, and pull off my sweatshirt to swap it out for one with a hood. The room knows what I’m doing.

“Keep quiet, everyone,” Nathan states the unnecessary. With my hood up and the room dimly lit, I tilt my head to obscure my face and answer the call. Dominique on my left remains poised at the ready. A former costume designer, her skills with wigs and stage makeup are unmatched. Photos of my personas side-by-side don’t even look like they’re related. I’m Latina. I’m part Asian. I’m a blonde. I’m a redhead.

We’re greeted by a man with a British accent, breathing heavily and whispering into the phone.

“Hey. How are you? I want to see you.” He tilts his phone and he’s lying in bed and shirtless. I kick my voice up an octave.

“Ummmm. I’m shy.”

“No, baby, no. Don’t be shy,” he croons, his voice soft and persuasive.

“I can’t fucking take this,” Will says, and walks out of the room, shaking his head.