Two days. Two panic attacks. Two early exits from festivities that were supposed to help her rejoin clan life rather than send her spiraling into memories of trauma.
Maybe I'm pushing too hard. Maybe the clinical detachment I pride myself on has blinded me to genuine harm I'm causing.
I knock anyway. Two sharp raps that echo in the quiet morning.
Footsteps approach from inside—slower than they should be, evidence of lingering stiffness in her legs that she still tries to hide. The door opens to reveal Ressa looking more rested than yesterday but still carrying shadows under her eyes that speak of interrupted sleep.
"You're early," she observes, not quite accusation but close.
"I wanted to talk before the festivities start." I keep my tone neutral, clinical. "About whether you want to continue this."
Her expression shifts, something defensive flickering across her features. "I said I'd do the week."
"You did." I lean against the porch railing, keeping distance between us. "But that was before two days of panic attacks. If this is causing more harm than good?—"
"It's not."
The interruption comes sharp enough to cut. Ressa crosses her arms, a gesture that would read as closed-off except I can see the tension in her shoulders has nothing to do with me and everything to do with her own frustration.
"The panic attacks are because of what happened to me," she continues, her voice steadier now. "Not because of what we're doing. Falla, if I hide in this cabin forever, those memories win. They get to control everything I do for the rest of my life."
I study her face, looking for signs of false bravado or stubborn pride overriding common sense. But her eyes hold genuine determination beneath the exhaustion.
"And if you have another breakdown?"
"Then you'll help me through it." She says it like it's obvious, like my presence during her panic attacks is a given. It does something to me to know she implicitly trusts me like that. "You've done it twice already. Why would today be different?"
Why indeed.
I nod slowly, accepting her logic even as part of me wants to bundle her back inside where she's safe from triggers and memories and the general chaos of clan festivities that seem designed to test every boundary she's rebuilt. As a healer, I know this is good.
But as I've been getting to know Ressa, it's become harder to see her just as a patient.
"Day 3 might be harder," I warn, keeping my voice level. "The reflex challenges involve more physical contact than the previous activities."
"I know." Her chin lifts fractionally. "Saela explained it last night."
Of course she did. Saela worries about Ressa the way I worry about patients with injuries that won't heal properly—constant vigilance looking for signs of deterioration.
"Your shoulder's still stiff," I point out, because if we're doing this I need her aware of the physical limitations. Though I have noticed they have improved now that she’s drinking the tea and using the salve. It will help speed her recovery much faster than I had initially estimated. "And your legs aren't back to full strength. You don't have to push yourself into activities that will aggravate existing injuries."
"Will you pull me out if it gets bad?"
"Yes."
The answer requires no thought. I've pulled her from two days of festivities already when panic threatened to consume her. Adding a third exit to that list won't change anything to me.
But it might hurt her more.
Ressa uncrosses her arms, some of the defensive tension easing from her posture. "Then I want to try."
I nod. I'll never hold her back if she doesn't think she needs it. I just want to help her heal in her head and heart as I have her body.
We make our way toward the gathering area in silence, my pace deliberately slowed to accommodate her legs without making it obvious I'm compensating. She notices anyway—she always does—but doesn't comment.
The clan has already assembled by the time we arrive, pairs clustered together in anticipation. Ursik stands with Kerra again, both of them radiating competitive energy that probably started before sunrise. Kai and Saela occupy their usual spot near the edge, Saela's eyes tracking Ressa's approach with barely concealed worry.
Drogath holds court at the center, dressed in what he probably believes is traditional human festival attire but actuallylooks like he raided a storage chest of random green fabric. Shamrocks drawn in what might be charcoal decorate his face in patterns that follow no logic I can identify.
