The GPS directed Jodie and Mitch to a large purple Victorian house with yellow time in Wickburg, which sat on a steep hill and overlooked the city. Jodie double checked the address to make sure that they were at the right location, and muttered something about being in a residential neighborhood.

“There’s a sign out front with a bunch of doctor names,” Mitch pointed. “This is definitely the place.”

“This is a therapist’s office?” Craning her neck, Jodie looked in the direction that Mitch gestured towards. “Wild.”

“Y’know, if my next follow up goes well, I won’t need you for rides anymore.” He wiggled the fingers of his right hand, beyond ready to be free of the damn sling once and for all. The minor bits of freedom he experienced when Avi worked on his shoulder was the only thing that kept him sane.

“I would have wanted to be here for you anyway. Like, to pick you up.” Jodie touched his forearm and squeezed. “The first therapy session is rough.”

“So I’ve heard,” Mitch chuckled.

“You usually talk about your parents,” she continued. “And cry a bunch.”

“Don’t know how many tears I have left at this point. Maybe that’s why I’m doing it now.” The back of Mitch’s head made contact with the headrest. “Feels safe. Like I got nothing else to lose.”

“Oh, you’ve got more tears. Trust me.” She patted him, then let go altogether. “Ready?”

“No man, but.” He sighed. “Also, yeah.”

“Love you, broski. Get that brain meat calibrated. I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door while she talked.

“Love you, too.” The door was shut with haste, and Mitch scrambled away from the car. All of that was exactly why he wanted to do this on his own, but Jodie insisted on tagging along. It wasn’t as though he didn’t appreciate the ride, or her support and kind-ish words, or everything else for that matter because goddamn if she wasn’t the best friend and best moral compass that a walking disaster could ask for.

But the fight from a few nights back still went unaddressed, and he wanted to be alone on the way over to determine whatever needed to be discussed during this introductory session. Despite the fact that this was necessary (and had been for his entire life, probably?), a thick layer of fog blanketed his brain and permeated all of its crevices. And as his hand made contact with the front door’s handle, he could barely recall why he was even here.

Still, he pushed forward, only pausing to examine a piece of paper that was taped to the front door’s window. On it was a list of names and corresponding numbers, which included Dr. Ann Moirow, his new therapist. The foyer that he stepped foot into smelled of old wood and varnish, with a large staircase and a long narrow hall behind that.

“Hello?” Someone from his left spoke up, and his head turned in their direction. Towards the back of a large room, a person sitting behind a desk flashed a polite smile. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes.” Mitch cleared his throat and walked over, introducing himself. A clipboard was handed over, and the receptionist explained what to fill out on the new patient check-in form, as well as requesting a copy of his ID and health insurance card. He took a seat on a shabby velvet sofa and jotted down the pertinent info, took back his cards while handing back the clipboard, then alternated between staring vacantly at the fishtank in the corner and some generic art prints of abstract shapes and colors. The topics he prepared for today still remained elusive.

“Mitchell?” A new voice cut through the haze that enveloped him.

“Huh?” He stood up out of instinct, and immediately felt ridiculous for doing so. On the bottom of the stairwell stood an older woman, thin with loose curly auburn hair, large glasses, and a gingham jumper dress that would have been at home in the 1970s. She reminded him of his favorite literature teacher in high school. “Uh, Mitch is fine,” he clarified.

“I’m Ann.” She extended her hand, and he moved forward to shake it. So far, he remained in uncharted waters; the small amount of planning he made in the last 10 minutes was annihilated due to the unexpected wrench of addressing a doctor by their first name. “Are you ready to start?” She asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he smiled haplessly, then followed her up the stairs and into a small room at the top of them. An overstuffed blue wingback chair was offered to him, and he waited until Ann was in her office chair before sitting down himself. She took a legal pad and pen from off of the desk and explained that she would be taking notes. Mitch’s eyes drifted to the cream and tan antique wallpaper, visually tracing the patterns on them while she said his name and the date aloud and continued to jot.

“So.” She placed the pad on her lap and lightly slapped the top of it with her palm. Mitch’s leg bounced as he waited for the next words out of her mouth. “Let’s go over you a little bit. What brings you in here?” Her words were steady: sounding carefully curated, yet natural. He anticipated someone much more neutral, clinical, but she had a kind smile and warm eyes and smelled faintly like cinnamon. Or maybe it was whatever was wafting from the chipped teacup on her desk.

“Uh, well,” Mitch readjusted in his seat. “I’m. I’m 29,” he stuttered. “I just got out of a 5 year relationship that was…” His cheeks puffed up, and then he exhaled. “Bad? Really bad? And my life’s…” he trailed off, grasping for words. “I’m in a weird place. Awful place? Like it’s not awful, OK? I’m safe, I have a roof over my head.” She nodded along thoughtfully, already starting to write. And although he thought that the well of tears was tapped, his eyes began to water and his chest ached so badly that the pain seeped into his ribcage. “I’m actually so lucky, y’know? But this has all been a really, really long time coming.”