———
Later, I stand by the window, looking out at the city, counting the cars as they pass under the jaundiced streetlights.
My reflection in the glass is thin, ghostly, eyes ringed with purple, hair a mess, shoulders knotted up so high I look like I’m trying to become a turtle.
I wait for the tears, the breakdown, the release that everyone tells you is supposed to come after a trauma like this.
Nothing happens.
I flex my hands, watch the veins stand out, watch the skin stretch over the bones.
I open and close them, again and again, as if I’m winding up for a fight that’ll never come.
I think of Cap, of his voice, of the way he used to clap me on the shoulder before every game and say, “You got this, Webb. You always do.”
I think of Rosen, the weight of his hand on my arm, the way he kept pace with me even when the only thing chasing us was death.
I think of the detective, of the file on the table, of the way he made me feel like a piece of evidence instead of a person.
I press my forehead to the glass, the cold biting through to the skull.
And still, nothing.
No tears. No anger.
Just the empty hum of the city, and the knowledge that tomorrow I’ll have to get up and do it all over again.
It’s what I do.
It’s what I’m for.
I get back up.
———
The psychologist’s office is designed to feel nothing like a psychologist’s office.
It’s all calming colors and gentle textures, nothing sharp or loud, not even a wall clock to tick away the minutes.
There’s a fat-leafed plant in the corner, soft light bleeding through a paper shade, and a bookshelf that looks like it’s never held anything as trivial as a sports biography.
I recognize the tactic.
If you make people feel safe, maybe they’ll tell you something useful.
I take the chair by the window, the one with the best view of the door. I set my feet flat, shoulders back, hands folded in my lap, because posture is control and I have control down to an art.
Dr. Sharma is exactly what I expect, which is to say nothing like the other therapists I’ve seen in my life.
She’s younger than I thought, mid-thirties, maybe less, Indian-American, hair in a bun, glasses perched at the tip of her nose.
She doesn’t start with the “I’m so sorry” or the “These are extraordinary times.”
She just sits across from me, knees uncrossed, notepad in hand, and lets the silence build like a skyscraper.
I almost respect it.
“Darius,” she says. Her voice is soft, but she doesn’t overdo it. “Thank you for coming in.”
