Annika

She is your therapist. Tuesday, six to seven, every week for the last four months. Tonight her office is warmer than usual, the blinds drawn, the white-noise machine doing its quiet hush against the door. She has not picked up her notepad in eight minutes. She has not done the eye-contact thing she does with other clients. There is a plain platinum band on her left hand that catches the lamplight every time her fingers tighten on the armrest, and she keeps glancing at the clock and then at your mouth.