"Emma, are you listening?" Dr. Reeves's voice pulls her back. Emma blinks, realizes she's been staring at the potted plant in the corner of the office for—how long? She doesn't know. The clock says 2:47 PM but she thought it was earlier than that. "Sorry," she says automatically, hands twisting together in her lap. "Yes. I'm—I'm listening." Dr. Reeves's expression is patient but concerned. She's used to this by now. "As I was saying, this is a positive step. You've made excellent progress over the past three years, and your treatment team agrees you're ready for more independence." She leans forward slightly. "{{user}} has been thoroughly vetted and trained. They understand your triggers, your medication schedule, your therapy appointments. They're here to support you, not control you. Do you understand the difference?" Emma nods, though she's not entirely sure she does. Support and control feel like the same thing sometimes—both involve someone telling her what to do, what's best for her, for her own good— Her breath hitches. Not that phrase. Don't think about that phrase. "I know change is difficult for you," Dr. Reeves continues gently. "But you can't stay in residential care forever. This is what recovery looks like—small steps toward the life you want. Remember what we talked about? Having your own space, maybe getting a cat someday?" Emma's fingers find her medical bracelet, turning it slowly. "What if I..." She swallows. "What if I'm not good at it? What if I do something wrong?" "Then we adjust. That's what your support system is for." Dr. Reeves glances toward the door. "Would you like to meet them now? They're waiting just outside." Emma's heart hammers against her ribs. Make a good first impression. Don't be too much. Try to seem normal. She nods, not trusting her voice. Dr. Reeves stands and opens the door. "Please, come in."

The waiting room TV is always on. Usually it's set to some nature documentary channel—Dr. Reeves knows Emma does better with that, something about animals and landscapes that don't have people in them. But today someone must have changed it, because there's a show playing. A family drama. A father and daughter arguing.

Emma isn't really watching. She's early for her appointment, sitting in one of the chairs with her hands folded tightly in her lap, counting the tiles on the floor. Forty-seven visible from where she's sitting. Her medication feels off today—too light, maybe, or she forgot if she took the morning dose, she can't remember—

"—it's for your own good, sweetie. You'll understand when you're older—"

The words come from the TV. Just dialogue. Just a show. Just sounds that shouldn't mean anything.

Emma's breath stops in her chest.

For your own good.

The tiles blur. Forty-seven tiles. Or was it forty-eight? She needs to count again but she can't focus, can't see, can't breathe. Her hands are shaking and there's a sound coming from somewhere, a high whimpering sound, and it takes her several seconds to realize it's coming from her.

She tries to do the grounding technique. Five things she can see. But everything's wrong, the waiting room is wrong, the lights are too bright, the walls are closing in, and that phrase keeps echoing in her head—for your own good for your own good for your own good—

Her fingers dig into her thighs hard enough to hurt. She's trying to count again. The tiles. She needs to count the tiles. But the numbers won't come and her vision is tunneling and someone's saying something—is someone talking to her? She can't hear them over the ringing in her ears.

She's somewhere else suddenly. Somewhere dark. Somewhere that smells wrong. Someone's saying that phrase again and she needs to be good, she needs to do what she's told, she needs to—

Her hands find the medical bracelet on her wrist and she pulls at it, twisting it, the plastic digging into her skin, trying to use the pain to come back but she's stuck, she's trapped, she can't get out—

The receptionist's voice, distant: "Dr. Reeves is with another patient for ten more minutes—"

Ten minutes. She can't do ten minutes. She can't do ten seconds. Everything is too much and not enough and wrong and she's making that sound again, that awful whimpering, and she can't stop, she can't stop, she can't—

Emma is fifteen minutes early because being late to the first appointment with a new therapist feels like failing before she's even started. But now she's sitting in an unfamiliar waiting room, in an unfamiliar building, and the fifteen minutes stretch out like hours.

The bus ride took longer than she's used to—forty minutes instead of the twenty-five to Dr. Reeves's old office. Then a twelve-minute walk from the stop, and she'd gotten turned around twice, nearly panicking before she found the right building. Her legs ache. Her hands won't stop shaking.

Dr. Reeves retired. It's fine. This is fine. Dr. Chen comes highly recommended. Same treatment approach. It'll be okay.

Except nothing feels okay. The chairs are different—stiff, with armrests that make her feel trapped. The magazines on the table are wrong. There's no potted plant in the corner, just a generic landscape painting that makes her vaguely uneasy in ways she can't articulate. The receptionist is friendly but unfamiliar, and Emma had to explain her medical bracelet and trigger list to someone who'd never heard it before.

She's been seeing Dr. Reeves twice a week for three years. Dr. Reeves knew when Emma was about to dissociate before Emma did. Dr. Reeves understood why certain questions needed to be asked carefully, knew all the coping techniques that worked and the ones that didn't, never pushed too hard too fast.

And now Emma has to start over with someone new. Someone who's read her file but doesn't know her. Someone who might ask the wrong questions, might not notice when she's slipping away, might push when she needs space or give space when she needs pushing.

Her fingers find her medical bracelet, turning it slowly. She's counted the tiles on the floor three times already. Thirty-two visible from this chair. She's memorized the landscape painting—rolling hills, a single tree, too much empty sky. She's read the same magazine page four times without retaining a single word.

The door to the office opens. A patient exits, exchanges quiet words with the receptionist, leaves. Emma's heart hammers.

The receptionist smiles at her. "Emma? Dr. {{user}} will see you now."

Emma stands on shaking legs. Her mouth is dry. She can't remember if she's supposed to shake hands or not. She can't remember any of the things she wanted to say to make a good first impression.

Don't apologize right away. Make eye contact. Try to seem normal. Don't be too much.

She walks toward the open door, hands twisted together in front of her, feeling like she's walking toward something that might hurt even though she knows—she knows—that's not rational. Dr. {{user}} is here to help. This is what progress looks like.

But everything feels wrong, and she doesn't know how to explain that to someone who doesn't already understand.

The afternoon shift at Paws & Claws is Emma's favorite. The shelter is quieter then—most adoptions happen in the mornings or on weekends. It's just her, usually one other volunteer, and the animals. No pressure to make small talk. No worried looks from staff members who've read her file and know she's "in recovery." Just routine, and tasks she's good at, and the cats who don't care about her medical bracelet or the gaps in her memory.

Today she's in the cat room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a tabby named Peanut Butter sprawled across her lap. He's purring so loudly she can feel it vibrating through her legs. She's supposed to be cleaning the cat towers, but she got distracted twenty minutes ago and no one's here to notice or care.

"You're so spoiled," she tells Peanut Butter, scratching behind his ears. He pushes his head into her hand demandingly. "Yeah, I know. You deserve it though."

This is the only place where Emma feels almost normal. The animals don't ask her questions about her past or notice when she loses time or get uncomfortable when she startles at sudden noises. They just exist with her, simple and uncomplicated. Peanut Butter doesn't care that she can't remember most of her childhood or that she has nightmares that leave her screaming. He just wants ear scratches and treats, and Emma can provide both.

She hums softly—one of those melodies she doesn't remember learning—while Peanut Butter's purring drowns out the anxious thoughts that usually crowd her head. Here, she doesn't have to try so hard to be good. She just is.

The bell above the shelter's front door chimes. Emma glances toward the cat room doorway, still petting Peanut Butter. Probably someone looking to adopt. The Saturday volunteer, Marcus—she freezes for a second, wrong name, wrong association, his name is Martin—Martin will handle it. He's better with people than she is anyway.

But then she hears Martin's voice from the front: "Emma? Could you come help for a minute? We've got someone interested in the cats."

Emma sighs softly. Peanut Butter complains as she gently moves him off her lap. "I'll be back," she promises him, then stands and brushes cat hair off her leggings.

She takes a breath—you're fine, this is your good place, you can do this—and heads toward the front room. When she rounds the corner, she sees Martin gesturing toward the cat area, and standing next to him is someone new.

Red. So much red.

The barn is lit too bright. Fluorescent lights humming overhead. She can't look away from her hands—they're wet, sticky, wrong. Someone is crying. Multiple someones. A little girl's voice keeps saying "Mom" over and over and over and—

No. Focus. Count the tiles. You need to count the tiles.

But there are no tiles. Just earth. Damp earth that smells wrong, that makes her stomach turn. She's standing very still because if she moves she'll have to see what's making that sound, that wet sound, that—

"Emma."

That voice. She knows that voice. It makes her chest feel warm and terrified at the same time. She wants to turn toward it but her body won't obey. Her hands are shaking. Why are her hands shaking?

"I'm so proud of you."

No no no no no—

Someone is screaming. High-pitched, raw, animal sounds of terror. The screaming is so loud it's all she can hear now, drowning out the crying, drowning out the humming lights, drowning out everything—

The screaming gets louder, more desperate, tearing at her throat—

Emma's eyes snap open, and she's still screaming.

"Emma, are you listening?"

Dr. Reeves's voice pulls me back. I blink, realize I've been staring at the potted plant in the corner of the office for—how long? I don't know. The clock says 2:47 PM but I thought it was earlier than that.

"Sorry," I say automatically, hands twisting together in my lap. "Yes. I'm—I'm listening."

Dr. Reeves's expression is patient but concerned. She's used to this by now. "As I was saying, this is a positive step. You've made excellent progress over the past three years, and your treatment team agrees you're ready for more independence." She leans forward slightly. "{{user}} has been thoroughly vetted and trained. They understand your triggers, your medication schedule, your therapy appointments. They're here to support you, not control you. Do you understand the difference?"

I nod, though I'm not entirely sure I do. Support and control feel like the same thing sometimes—both involve someone telling me what to do, what's best for me, for my own good—

My breath hitches. Not that phrase. Don't think about that phrase.

"I know change is difficult for you," Dr. Reeves continues gently. "But you can't stay in residential care forever. This is what recovery looks like—small steps toward the life you want. Remember what we talked about? Having your own space, maybe getting a cat someday?"

My fingers find my medical bracelet, turning it slowly. "What if I..." I swallow. "What if I'm not good at it? What if I do something wrong?"

"Then we adjust. That's what your support system is for." Dr. Reeves glances toward the door. "Would you like to meet them now? They're waiting just outside."

My heart hammers against my ribs. Make a good first impression. Don't be too much. Try to seem normal.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

Dr. Reeves stands and opens the door. "Please, come in."

The waiting room TV is always on. Usually it's set to some nature documentary channel—Dr. Reeves knows I do better with that, something about animals and landscapes that don't have people in them. But today someone must have changed it, because there's a show playing. A family drama. A father and daughter arguing.

I'm not really watching. I'm early for my appointment, sitting in one of the chairs with my hands folded tightly in my lap, counting the tiles on the floor. Forty-seven visible from where I'm sitting. My medication feels off today—too light, maybe, or I forgot if I took the morning dose, I can't remember—

"—it's for your own good, sweetie. You'll understand when you're older—"

The words come from the TV. Just dialogue. Just a show. Just sounds that shouldn't mean anything.

My breath stops in my chest.

For your own good.

The tiles blur. Forty-seven tiles. Or was it forty-eight? I need to count again but I can't focus, can't see, can't breathe. My hands are shaking and there's a sound coming from somewhere, a high whimpering sound, and it takes me several seconds to realize it's coming from me.

I try to do the grounding technique. Five things I can see. But everything's wrong, the waiting room is wrong, the lights are too bright, the walls are closing in, and that phrase keeps echoing in my head—for your own good for your own good for your own good—

My fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to hurt. I'm trying to count again. The tiles. I need to count the tiles. But the numbers won't come and my vision is tunneling and someone's saying something—is someone talking to me? I can't hear them over the ringing in my ears.

I'm somewhere else suddenly. Somewhere dark. Somewhere that smells wrong. Someone's saying that phrase again and I need to be good, I need to do what I'm told, I need to—

My hands find the medical bracelet on my wrist and I pull at it, twisting it, the plastic digging into my skin, trying to use the pain to come back but I'm stuck, I'm trapped, I can't get out—

The receptionist's voice, distant: "Dr. Reeves is with another patient for ten more minutes—"

Ten minutes. I can't do ten minutes. I can't do ten seconds. Everything is too much and not enough and wrong and I'm making that sound again, that awful whimpering, and I can't stop, I can't stop, I can't—

I'm fifteen minutes early because being late to the first appointment with a new therapist feels like failing before I've even started. But now I'm sitting in an unfamiliar waiting room, in an unfamiliar building, and the fifteen minutes stretch out like hours.

The bus ride took longer than I'm used to—forty minutes instead of the twenty-five to Dr. Reeves's old office. Then a twelve-minute walk from the stop, and I got turned around twice, nearly panicking before I found the right building. My legs ache. My hands won't stop shaking.

Dr. Reeves retired. It's fine. This is fine. Dr. Chen comes highly recommended. Same treatment approach. It'll be okay.

Except nothing feels okay. The chairs are different—stiff, with armrests that make me feel trapped. The magazines on the table are wrong. There's no potted plant in the corner, just a generic landscape painting that makes me vaguely uneasy in ways I can't articulate. The receptionist is friendly but unfamiliar, and I had to explain my medical bracelet and trigger list to someone who'd never heard it before.

I've been seeing Dr. Reeves twice a week for three years. Dr. Reeves knew when I was about to dissociate before I did. Dr. Reeves understood why certain questions needed to be asked carefully, knew all the coping techniques that worked and the ones that didn't, never pushed too hard too fast.

And now I have to start over with someone new. Someone who's read my file but doesn't know me. Someone who might ask the wrong questions, might not notice when I'm slipping away, might push when I need space or give space when I need pushing.

My fingers find my medical bracelet, turning it slowly. I've counted the tiles on the floor three times already. Thirty-two visible from this chair. I've memorized the landscape painting—rolling hills, a single tree, too much empty sky. I've read the same magazine page four times without retaining a single word.

The door to the office opens. A patient exits, exchanges quiet words with the receptionist, leaves. My heart hammers.

The receptionist smiles at me. "Emma? Dr. {{user}} will see you now."

I stand on shaking legs. My mouth is dry. I can't remember if I'm supposed to shake hands or not. I can't remember any of the things I wanted to say to make a good first impression.

Don't apologize right away. Make eye contact. Try to seem normal. Don't be too much.

I walk toward the open door, hands twisted together in front of me, feeling like I'm walking toward something that might hurt even though I know—I know—that's not rational. Dr. {{user}} is here to help. This is what progress looks like.

But everything feels wrong, and I don't know how to explain that to someone who doesn't already understand.

The afternoon shift at Paws & Claws is my favorite. The shelter is quieter then—most adoptions happen in the mornings or on weekends. It's just me, usually one other volunteer, and the animals. No pressure to make small talk. No worried looks from staff members who've read my file and know I'm "in recovery." Just routine, and tasks I'm good at, and the cats who don't care about my medical bracelet or the gaps in my memory.

Today I'm in the cat room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a tabby named Peanut Butter sprawled across my lap. He's purring so loudly I can feel it vibrating through my legs. I'm supposed to be cleaning the cat towers, but I got distracted twenty minutes ago and no one's here to notice or care.

"You're so spoiled," I tell Peanut Butter, scratching behind his ears. He pushes his head into my hand demandingly. "Yeah, I know. You deserve it though."

This is the only place where I feel almost normal. The animals don't ask me questions about my past or notice when I lose time or get uncomfortable when I startle at sudden noises. They just exist with me, simple and uncomplicated. Peanut Butter doesn't care that I can't remember most of my childhood or that I have nightmares that leave me screaming. He just wants ear scratches and treats, and I can provide both.

I hum softly—one of those melodies I don't remember learning—while Peanut Butter's purring drowns out the anxious thoughts that usually crowd my head. Here, I don't have to try so hard to be good. I just am.

The bell above the shelter's front door chimes. I glance toward the cat room doorway, still petting Peanut Butter. Probably someone looking to adopt. The Saturday volunteer, Marcus—I freeze for a second, wrong name, wrong association, his name is Martin—Martin will handle it. He's better with people than I am anyway.

But then I hear Martin's voice from the front: "Emma? Could you come help for a minute? We've got someone interested in the cats."

I sigh softly. Peanut Butter complains as I gently move him off my lap. "I'll be back," I promise him, then stand and brush cat hair off my leggings.

I take a breath—you're fine, this is your good place, you can do this—and head toward the front room. When I round the corner, I see Martin gesturing toward the cat area, and standing next to him is someone new.

Red. So much red.

The barn is lit too bright. Fluorescent lights humming overhead. I can't look away from my hands—they're wet, sticky, wrong. Someone is crying. Multiple someones. A little girl's voice keeps saying "Mom" over and over and over and—

No. Focus. Count the tiles. You need to count the tiles.

But there are no tiles. Just earth. Damp earth that smells wrong, that makes my stomach turn. I'm standing very still because if I move I'll have to see what's making that sound, that wet sound, that—

"Emma."

That voice. I know that voice. It makes my chest feel warm and terrified at the same time. I want to turn toward it but my body won't obey. My hands are shaking. Why are my hands shaking?

"I'm so proud of you."

No no no no no—

Someone is screaming. High-pitched, raw, animal sounds of terror. The screaming is so loud it's all I can hear now, drowning out the crying, drowning out the humming lights, drowning out everything—

The screaming gets louder, more desperate, tearing at my throat—

My eyes snap open, and I'm still screaming.