That evening, Freya had to go to her first appointment with the psychiatrist. She'd spent the rest of the day reading about meteorites and how they were examined and catalogued. She was glad to get out of the house, even if it meant going to something she would hate.

Dr. Garbuglio’s practice was at the edge of town in a discordant cube of black glass on 777 Emerson Street. They’d planned to build a whole shopping complex across the road, but it never happened. Behind the building was an aborted subdivision, four empty houses in various stages of construction, and forty vacant lots.

Years of red-faced council meetings and screaming headlines in the Sillas River Sentinel had opposed the development. When the development opponents finally triumphed, they were rewarded with this corpse of a neighborhood. Acres of cleared forest where the proposed supermarket was scuttled, and now trees encroached on the farthest lots. Soon, the forest would reclaim what it had lost. This building was all they managed to complete. It jutted from the wasteland like a nail.

Lassa dropped Freya in the parking lot and told her to take a cab home, she'd be out late. Freya wondered if it was Lynn or someone else. That glance at the bedroom hadn't even been a whole second long, but she would never forget it.

The office had a vaguely singed smell beneath an orange musk of aromatherapy oil. Just like home, it was one of those rooms where everything had been carefully selected and exactly arranged. No dust or clutter was allowed to accumulate. The walls were a stark gallery white, and the paintings and pottery were done in purple hues. It was a cold place, and it put Freya on edge.

The receptionist called Freya into the doctor's office. Inside the office at least, the lights were more muted. To her right, a large painting took up the entire wall, fourteen feet wide and eight feet tall. A layer of smooth plaster was broken into a thousand rivers of glossy multicolored paint.

It looked like a bed of mud that had dried out, then the cracks flooded with iridescent oil. Freya spent a while staring, wondering if they’d needed a crane to get it in here. The doctor was not in the office.

There were two armchairs facing each other. Beside them was a small half-circle table with tissues, bottles of water, and a vase of irises. There was no chaise longue like on TV.

Behind the armchairs was a floor-to-ceiling window that loomed over the empty lots and looked out at the hazy mountains behind them. The left wall was a tall row of bookshelves, and at Freya’s immediate left was a door with a red EXIT sign that led to the hallway. She guessed it was so people could leave without going through the reception and seeing the other patients. She browsed through the bookshelves, finding one shelf that was all copies of the same book.

The Fragile Phoenix by Dr. Vincente Garbuglio

The book was bound in midnight blue faux leather, and the letters on the spine were debossed in silver. Freya reached for one but stopped herself. She didn't want the doctor to barge in and find her messing with his bookshelves. She glanced around the room and noticed the camera over the door she'd come in, then tilted her head at it.

Was she being observed right now? Was this part of the whole thing? The room felt like a trap, and if she stayed here, she was sure to spring it. Freya wondered if she could just leave and ask Lassa to find some other psychiatrist. But Lassa had talked to several psychiatrists and specifically picked Dr. Garbuglio. She stared up at the sign again. It was a lie, there was no exit. Freya sat in the armchair facing the camera and stared directly at it.

After several minutes, Dr. Garbuglio entered. She'd expected him to be much older. He wore a slate gray blazer with a black dress shirt and a black tie. His hair was black and fine with a high widow’s peak. He might not even be forty yet.

No wonder Lassa picked him.

He stood over her and extended a hand, and she had to get up to shake it. She noticed his hand was damp and his fly was slightly undone. He’d just come from the bathroom. Ugh. His handshake was too hard but just below the point where she would say something about it.

"You must be Freya. I'm Doctor Garbuglio. Do you mind if I sit in that chair?"

The two chairs were identical, round, black leather armchairs. She wanted to tell him no, but that was childish. She moved to the other chair, feeling uncomfortable. It was like every part of this was designed to put her on edge.

Maybe it was.

She waited for him to talk, and he was silent for a long moment. She made up her mind she wasn't coming back here.

"It's so I can see the clock behind you," Dr. Garbuglio explained. She resisted the urge to turn her head and look at it. "I don't want to keep you late. Though, if you ever need to, we can talk for as long as you want.”

Freya nodded. She'd already talked for as long as she wanted to.

"So, this first session, I'm just going to be asking you some easy questions. I just want to find out what's going on."

“Okay."

“Have you ever spoken with a psychiatrist or therapist before?”

“Yes, briefly,” Freya said. He had to already know this.

"The things we say here are private. I'm not going to tell your mother what you say. Nothing will ever leave this room unless I feel like you're in danger or someone else is. Okay with you?”

Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at him. She wondered if he was lying.

"But you're recording everything right?" She nodded towards the camera.

"Yes. For a lot of reasons. The other cameras are there, and there, and there's a microphone on the side table." Dr. Garbuglio indicated the two cameras she hadn't noticed, and the microphone on the table, which was just a black wedge next to the vase of irises.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

"Is it normal to record everything?"

"Some psychiatrists do, some don't. I'm a believer in recording sessions. I review everything in case I miss something important. Also, I deal with a lot of people going through some very difficult times, and having a record is just a good precaution for us. I won't show your recordings to anyone else unless, as I said, I feel like you're in danger or someone else is."

Freya must have looked unconvinced.

"Here's an important thing about those recordings and your psychiatric records: I can't give them to anyone unless I have a court order to do so. Not your mother, not even the police."

"It's nothing that interesting," Freya said, and Dr. Garbuglio shifted his head, not quite a nod.

"Do you have any other questions before we begin?"

She shook her head.

"How old are you, Freya?"

"I'm sixteen."

"You go to Grayson High. Do you like it there?"

"It's okay."

"What's your favorite class there?"

"I don't… I don't really have one. Last year, I liked drama."

"But not this year?"

"This year has been tough."

"Is it alright if I ask you some questions about your father?"

"Yes."

"I understand he died six months ago. Is it okay if we talk about it?"

"Don't you already know?"

"I only know he died not the specifics. It’s important I hear it from you. We're not going to dig deep. This is only the first meeting. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t feel comfortable with.”

Freya glanced over at the door to the hallway and exhaled.

NO EXIT.

"He was killed,” she said, surprised by how difficult it was to get the words out.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's…" Freya trailed off. As much as she had thought about this, she hadn't said anything about it in months. She'd carried it like a lead weight in her guts.

“You can take as much time as you want. Whenever you’re ready, could you tell me what happened?"

"He got stabbed. He wasn't on duty. This guy from Toronto was beating someone up at Quay’s pool hall. Randall tried to break them up. The attacker pulled out a knife and stabbed him in the neck."

Dr. Garbuglio didn't say anything, he just watched Freya and waited.

"They say he died quickly. His artery got cut. So, he didn't suffer long." She felt like she had to say that part.

"What happened to the murderer?"

"He went out in the parking lot right afterward and shot himself in his car. The man getting beaten lost an eye, but he lived.”

"That's terrible, Freya. I’m very sorry to hear that.” Dr. Garbuglio shifted his posture in the seat. He seemed unprepared for this, and she immediately felt like he was incompetent.

"How did you find out?" he asked.

"I was asleep. Lassa woke me up to tell me. I didn't… I didn't really believe. I didn't believe for a long time and, even at the funeral, I kept expecting it to not be real. Every morning, I woke up and thought it had been a dream. It was crushing."

Again, the half nod.

"Do you still have that feeling?"

"No. I know he's gone. I just want to-” Freya swallowed what she was about to say, “to feel better,” she concluded, realizing she’d nearly pitched into the abyss.

Suddenly, his eyes were very alert. She'd almost screwed up. If she told Garbuglio anything that even hinted at suicide, he was going to put her in a ward at Northern Light Hospital. A part of her thought maybe that wouldn't be the worst thing, but it was only a small part. She didn't trust this guy, with his wet handshake and his cameras. Maybe Lassa just wanted to get rid of her and this was her plan.

"Are you having a difficult time in school?"

"Not with grades, no. Just some girls picking on me."

"You were in a fight, right?"

"It wasn't a fight. She just hit me. I didn't hit her back."

“Why? Why didn't you hit her back?"

"I didn't want to."

"You told your principal afterward you didn't want to get up. You were lying on the ground in the rain."

"I think I was just hurt, maybe half-unconscious. She hit me pretty hard."

"Why did you tell the principal you didn't want to get up?" Dr. Garbuglio asked. He'd lasered in on that tiny evasion, and he wouldn't let it go. She leaned away from him in the armchair.

This session was very different from the therapist Freya visited five months ago. When she couldn’t sleep after Randall died, Lassa brought her to a curly-haired woman whose office was in a converted farmhouse north of town.

Freya had no difficulty handling her after years of being interrogated by Lassa. She’d gone in knowing the exact medication she wanted and just led the therapist to her predetermined conclusion. There had been a psychiatrist there, too, but he was just a rubber stamp on the prescription. Garbuglio reminded Freya more of Lassa. He was too sharp. Dangerous.

"I was embarrassed I got beat up,” she lied, staring intently at Dr. Garbuglio, daring him to call her on it.

"So, you lied to him?"

"Yes."

"Do you do that a lot?"

"Not really."

"Not really?" he needled.

Freya raised her head abruptly and stared at Dr. Garbuglio, catching him by surprise. "I don't like it when people do that."

"Do what?"

"Repeat the last thing you said as a question. It bothers me. It's a gimmick."

For a second, Dr. Garbuglio looked a little embarrassed, like he'd been caught out. A tiny victory. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"Can you tell me about your friends?”

"I don't have a lot. My best friend moved to Wisconsin about three months ago."

"What's her name?"

“Betty."

"Do you keep in touch with her?"

"I try, but her mother took her phone away because of her grades. She still keeps in touch, but it's not like it was."

"Do you wish things could be like they were a lot?"

"That's a stupid question," Freya said.

"Why's it stupid?"

"Because it's obvious.” Freya was angry. She didn't like Dr. Garbuglio. She took a deep breath through her nose, reminding herself this man could put her in a mental ward.

"Freya, I'm just trying to help here. You don't have to be combative."

She wanted to deny she was being combative. She wanted to yell at Garbuglio and tell him to fuck off. There was something in the way he looked at her. That was exactly what he wanted. He was trying to provoke her. Garbuglio was very good at being annoying. No one had gotten under her skin like this since Randall died.

Was that what it took?

She sighed and looked behind her at the clock. Only ten minutes left. She answered his remaining questions with terse replies of one or two words, and it felt like an eternity. Dr. Garbuglio went on asking but without pressing her. He seemed to realize he’d gotten as far as he could.

At the end, he thanked her and shook her hand. This time, he didn't clamp down too hard. He rattled on about recovery, but she didn’t hear him. She put her hand in her pocket and felt the Starball’s warmth. She’d started doing that whenever she felt nervous or upset. It was time for her to nod at him, and then she left through the door to the hall and took a cab home.

She never wanted to come back.

But Lassa would make her.