Alf checked his phone one more time. The meeting wouldn’t start for another eleven minutes. He took one more lap around the Psych Building’s fifth floor and decided it was probably okay to go inside. Getting to a group therapy session five minutes early wouldn’t look nearly as pathetic as getting there an hour early.

The depression group wasn’t an official part of the NASB Program, but the correlation between SBS super brain syndrome and clinical depression was more positive than a proton at a pep rally. Dr. Zhong said everyone in the program would attend the therapy sessions at least once.

Easing open the conference room door, Alf stepped uncertainly into a brightly lit room. A huge bank of windows backlit the room with a spectacular view of the Berkeley campus. Silhouetted against the sunlight, three students and a prettyish older lady were sitting around a rectangle of institutional plastic tables. The two guys had a too-ADHD-to-threaten-a-kitten look to them. They were obviously friends—probably in their second year of the program. The girl was about his age, seventeen or maybe eighteen. She was the poster child of depression patients: limp greasy hair, hollow listless eyes, hands and arms hidden in the heavy sleeves of an over-sized black hoodie—even though the sun-baked room was at least eighty degrees.

“You must be Alfonzo Alvarez.” Therapist Lady hit him with a clinically sterile smile. “I’m Samantha Blake. Dr. Zhong’s told me all about you. He's definitely a fan.”

“Alf.” He took a seat, watching the others carefully for their reactions. The last thing he needed was to get into a territory dispute with an alpha-sized ego. “I prefer Alf.”

She nodded and fumbled with a stack of handouts in a way that made him wonder if maybe this was her first time meeting with students. The photo on her laminated ID badge looked like it had been taken that morning: same hairstyle, same shirt, same clinical cliché jacket.

A thump shook the door. It was followed by a series of muffled bumps and scrapes.

Alf looked around the table, but everyone else was looking away. He was obviously missing something. While he was still wondering if he should get up, the door scraped open and in rolled a girl in a electric wheel chair. She was so disfigured Alf didn’t know where to look. The left half of her face was a sagging mess of shiny scars. He didn’t want to stare, but looking away would be even worse so he focused instead on her eyes which were lit with a determined kind of mischievousness that promised to be all kinds of interesting.

“Morning, everyone!” Her voice was a bit hard on the ears, but the enthusiasm seemed to be genuine. She angled the chair back and forth to take in each occupant of the room. When she got to Alf, her eyes went wide. Had he met her before? He tried to imagine what she looked like before the fire or explosion or whatever had happened to her. Pretty, he decided. Really pretty.

And then he realized how long he’d been staring. He looked away, thought better of it, and then tried to reestablish politely-interested-but-not-desperate eye contact.

“I’m Aggie, but everyone calls me Blix.” She fixed him with a mischievous little half smile and started toward him.

“Um…” Alf’s face burned. His eyes locked onto the empty cuffs of her yoga shorts. “I’m…” He shut his eyes and tried to breathe, but his skin was on fire. Sweat beaded around his hairline. His heart jackhammered against his ribs. He looked up again, looked away, studied the texture of the plastic table.

The wheelchair jolted against the side of his chair. Once, twice… And then a gentle hand clasped his shoulder.

“It’s okay, just breathe.” Her voice was soft as a whisper, but somehow that made his chest seize up even harder. He was starting to lose it. For no reason at all. It was ridiculous. First impressions were important. If he freaked out now, he’d be labeled a freak for the rest of the program.