Sam.
An ordinary name that makes this feel ordinary, makes her feel human. Real or make believe?
My mind flashes an image: a boy somewhere, maybe already in a room like this, maybe not. The system knows how to use ordinary things as weapons.
I look at the biscuits again, at the neat little comfort staging.
“How long have you been here, Lena?” I ask.
She looks confused. “I don’t know. They bring me in for sessions. Sometimes it’s…sometimes it’s hours. Sometimes it feels like days.”
She says it with that slight lack of certainty that tells me she’s lost time. They’re doing it to her too.
My throat tightens.
I can feel myself sliding towards the role I always play. The one that makes other people breathe easier. The one that sacrifices my own fear so theirs can settle.
But I can’t afford to do that here.
Because they want that role. They want to turn it into a weapon they can hone whenever they like.
“Alright,” I say. “If you’re being forced to do this, then we treat it like any other coercion. You tell me what they asked you to ask, and I’ll decide what to answer.”
Her eyes widen. “You’ll – you’ll help me?”
The hope in her voice is almost unbearable.
I hate them for creating that moment. For making me the person who can give her hope.
I swallow hard. “I’ll try not to make things worse.”
She lets out a shaky breath, relief washing through her so visibly that my hands twitch with the urge to reach out and steady her.
I keep them at my sides.
She glances towards the ceiling again, then back at me. “They want to know what you’re afraid of.”
A simple question, and it punches straight through the warm décor.
I stare at her.
“What did you say?” I ask instead.
She looks startled. “What?”
“What did you tell them when they asked you to ask that?” I repeat. “What did you give them as your answer?”
She frowns, thinking. “I…I told them you were afraid of being alone.”
My stomach turns. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”
She looks down, embarrassed. “I— it was just a guess. You seem like…like you take care of people. People who do that…they don’t like being left.”
Her guess is good enough to be dangerous.
I let my face go blank. “Try again.”
She looks up, startled by the edge in my tone. “Try?—”
