Surprisingly, not Dr. Wick. She is hired by the Order, her notes filed in the Consortium archive, her loyalties distributed accordingly.
Dr. Ward is different. She was appointed because the Order considers her neutral, which means she reports to Silas and also, apparently, has a conscience about it. She has rearranged the furniture in her office three times since my first session, which I find telling. She is trying to find the configuration that gives her the most distance from me.
She hasn’t found it yet.
The office is in the east tower of the main administrative building, a real room, with a real window, a detail I don’t take for granted. A desk. Two chairs positioned at the approved therapeutic angle. A plant on the windowsill that she waters too much; the soil is always dark. On the wall behind her, a framed print of something abstract in blues and grey that is supposed to be calming and succeeds only in being beige in a different color.
I sit in the patient chair with my arms resting on my knees and wait.
Dr. Ward sets her recorder on the desk between us, opens her notebook to a fresh page, and looks at me over the top of her reading glasses with the expression of a woman who has decidedto be professional about this regardless of whatever this turns out to be.
“Good afternoon, Saint.”
“Doctor.”
“How has the week been?”
“Educational,” I say. “In the literal sense. I attended classes. I took notes. I ate in the dining hall like a functioning member of society. I did not dismantle anyone.” A pause. “That you know of.”
She writes something down. I watch her pen move and say nothing.
“Let’s talk about social integration,” she says, which is the clinical way of asking whether I have spoken to another human being voluntarily. “You’ve been on campus for several weeks now. Are you forming any connections with other students?”
“Define connection.”
“Relationships. Conversations that extend beyond transactional necessity.”
I consider this. “There was a girl in the east stairwell who had a fairly transactional approach to the interaction but seemed satisfied with the outcome, so I suppose it depends on your threshold.”
Dr. Ward’s pen stops moving.
“I’m sorry?”
“You asked about connections,” I say helpfully. “I’m connecting.”
She looks at me. I look back. Her expression has gone carefully, professionally neutral, which means she is deciding how to proceed with a patient who has just described a sexual encounter in the stairwell of an academic building with the affect of someone reporting on the weather.
“Is this something you want to discuss?” she asks.
“Not particularly,” I say. “You asked. I answered. If you’d like to move on, I support that. If you’d like more, I also had a connection inside the swim team’s locker room.”
She ignores it and moves on. I consider this a small victory.
“The Order’s progress report notes that you’ve been attending your full course schedule,” she says, returning to safer ground. “How are you finding the academic environment? Is it…manageable?”
“I find behavioral psychology interesting,” I say honestly. “The literature module is useful. The economics requirement is not, but I attend anyway because the condition of my release specifies full attendance and I am nothing if not technically compliant.”
“Technically compliant,” she repeats, writing it down. “That’s a careful phrase.”
“I’m a careful person.”
She looks up. We both sit with that for a moment.
“I’d like to ask about something,” she says, with the tone of someone who has been building toward a something for the past ten minutes. “The Order’s observation report mentioned that you’ve been noted in the company of a particular student. A first-year.” She consults her notes, which is unnecessary — she already knows the name, she’s read it several times before this session. “Amy Torres.”
Something shifts in my chest. Imperceptibly, I hope.
“Is that a question?” I ask.
