I'm not sure which is worse.
"Hey," I call out, trying to keep my voice calm, soothing, lacking worry and concern. "What's going on?"
She releases a growl and yanks at more hair. "Willa, let's take a deep breath," I tell her.
Her eyes are full of anger but seem empty at the same time as if she is watching a horrible nightmare play out on the other side of the wall that separates us from the hallway.
Her body convulses, and I wish so badly I could just give her a tight hug. People need hugs when they're upset. It's a scientific fact.
"What happened?" I ask without hope of a response since she has been here six months and has yet to answer any question.
"A nightmare," she says through an exhale. I haven't heard her voice before now. She sounds older than she is and foreign. Though, I know she was born and raised outside of Austin.
"Okay," I tell her. "I hate nightmares. They feel so real sometimes."
"He was back," she says.
I nod my head, letting her words sink in for a moment. The records we have about Willa mention physical abuse and assault from her step-father. Her house was a hub for drug trafficking, and both her mother and step-father are now in prison.
Willa and I sit through therapy every week, but the session consists of me talking and working through whatever internal battles she is enduring. I'm not so sure I've been helping, though.
"He's in prison, Willa."
She jerks her head up and down with understanding. "It was real," she mutters.
"I know, but it's not anymore."
She shakes her head again, then runs the tips of her fingers through her hair. "It hurts, but not as much."
There are days this job takes an emotional toll on me. Today will be one of them. "Leena will be up in a minute to take a look at your head, okay? After she cleans you up, I want you to take a shower and come downstairs to my office so we can chat. I'll even make you hot cocoa, okay?"
"Yes," she says, nodding her head in agreement.
Each step I take, back down to the first floor, leaves me with a wave of nausea. I'm probably hungry and dehydrated.
With one foot in my office, I find Leena right behind me, closing us inside. "What in the world has gotten into you?" she asks.
I do my best to appear confused. "What do you mean?"
"First off, you smell like alcohol. We can't have that here."
I didn't have time to take a shower this morning.
"Second, you look like you're sick."
I called that one.
"Third, you need to take care of yourself before you can take care of troubled children. Consider this a warning, August. I can't have you here like this again. Do you understand?"
This is why Keegan couldn't keep a job.
"I'm getting better, Leena. In fact, I have an appointment with my therapist at lunchtime today."
"I'm glad to hear that, August, but really, I need you to be on the mend, and you seem to be going down a rough hill."
"I'm fine," I try to assure her.
"You're going to need to prove that to me."
