"I'm not worried about them," I say, leaning further over the desk.
"I'm worried about you."
He sits back, hands steepled.
"Why? You think I'm going to hurt you?"
"I think you already have," I say.
"And I think you're going to keep doing it because you don't know how to stop."
He lets the words settle.
Then, slowly, he closes the ledger, aligns the pen perfectly with the page, and stands.
"If I wanted to break you, I would have done it already."
I meet his gaze, unblinking.
"You don't want to break me. You want me to break myself."
He comes around the desk.
"I don't want you to break at all," he says.
"I want you to survive."
He stands close enough that I can see the flecks of gray in his stubble, the broken vein at the corner of his left eye.
He smells like tobacco and soap and the burn of fresh air from the night gardens.
If I stay this near a moment longer, my throat will close up and the tears I've been holding back will run free.
I turn and push past him, toward the door, but his hand closes on my wrist.
It is not gentle, but it is not cruel.
He turns me, and I twist free, but only because he allows it.
Our faces are close enough now that I can see the abrasion on his cheek from last night's razor, the line of tension along his mouth.
He says, "You hate me."
"I don't hate you," I say.
"I hate that you say you're giving me a chance when your eyes are on me all the time."
He lets go, but the space between us is now charged in a way that has nothing to do with electricity.
I move to the fireplace, lean against the mantel, and stare at the fox head, willing it to blink. It never does.
"I want a real phone," I say.
He shrugs.
"Ask nicely."
"I want to walk the grounds without eyes on me."
