About The Process Offer (New Installment)

Post 484:

The Process Offer: A Short Story (New Episode)

Parts 1-7:

            He counted something like a hundred people at the burial. Not a great turnout, considering the tide of sullen faces that came out for the viewing and funeral service. Maybe his numbers were off. It was all a blur. Six days he’d spent in misery, dreading this final goodbye. Desperate as he was to continue courting denial, it was impossible, considering what was before him. The ground was calling them down, dust to dust and—he couldn’t bear watching. A rush of tears. The preacher whispered final words and attendees starting slinking off in the rain, leaving him to stomach random men in coveralls as they lowered three caskets, all different sizes. The caskets of his wife and two children.

            After hugs and downed heads from his closest friends and family, he was alone. An hour. Maybe two. Standing motionless until he was but a remnant in a suit, a puddle for a home. Isolation seemed a just punishment. This was his fault. There was no escape from the guilt, no matter how many people attempted to convince him otherwise. You weren’t there. What could you have done? He should’ve been there. It was his job to do something.

            Nothing could stop the condemnation coursing through his body. It was an incurable virus. Something that would live and sicken his insides until he finally succumbed to the torture. 

            Shivering and completely lost on how to proceed with the next minute, let alone the rest of his life, he decided vaguely that it was time to go back to the limousine. He thought about how big it was and how alone he’d feel once he got in—

            “Mr. Schroeder. I can’t say how sorry I am.”

            He looked to face a woman with a caring expression, completely clad in black. Dress, stockings, hat… all black. She was conspicuously stationed in his pathway to the limo—he tried to place her—I’ve seen her before—maybe one of Nicolette’s colleagues—perhaps one of Jackie’s teachers—one of Sally’s nannies—“Thank you,” he muttered, abandoning further attempts at recollection. “T-thanks for coming. I’m going to go home now.”

            “Mr. Schroeder, this is the worst part of my job, but if I could talk to you a moment before you go.”

            “Have we?” he asked. The question was weak, dying quick in the wet air. He tried to pass by the woman. Collapse into the limo. The big, empty limo.

            “If you’re asking if we’ve met, the answer is yes, but only briefly. I doubt you’d remember.”          

            The driver came out and rounded the ridiculous vehicle, opening the door and an umbrella with choreographic fluidity.

            “It was at your home. Just after,” she continued.

            “Maybe I remember,” he mumbled, thinking more about the driver and the sadness of his job. Picking up people from the worst moments of their lives, driving them back so they might get along coping, finding space in the fridge for We’re so sorry casseroles.  

            She could see he wasn’t responding. She’d give her pitch and hopefully that would be enough to cut through the fog. “I’m Alayna Ruiz, a representative of your life insurance company. I’ve come to inform you that because of the work at your tech firm and the extraordinary nature of the loss, we’d like to make you an Offer.”

            “Offer.”

            “Yes sir, Mr. Schroeder. Our company has a burgeoning partnership with your firm, and as an Executive Vice President, you qualify for the Program.”

            “Program? You’re selling me something?”

            Ms. Ruiz took a step between Kip Schroeder and the limousine. She was telling the truth. This was the worst part of the job. This man—this young man, probably a guy she’d check out if she’d seen him a week ago—reduced to a husk. But she wasn’t selling. She was offering.

            This is what Alayna told herself as she proceeded. “No one can bring back the people you love. There is no compensation.”

            He looked at her, not knowing what to say. Her previous statement was a black hole of obviousness that only she could take them out of.

            “Our Program can’t bring them back, but it might make it so you don’t have to let go so suddenly.”

            The rain fell. Kip’s red eyes tightened. “Miss—”

            “Ruiz. Alayna Ruiz.”

            Kip tried to speak, but his insides were desiccated. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth to the gray sky, letting thick drops lubricate his mouth and throat. “Miss Ruiz,” he finally managed, “what the hell are you talking about?”

            She joined Kip Schroeder on the ride home, explaining the situation, what he might have in front of him. A slightly less shell-shocked version of himself would’ve laughed off the entire proposition at several points, but he simply sat and listened. His brain reacted but not his body. What she talked about—the technology made sense—he was always quick to understand technology—the why however, remained elusive.

            Pulling up to the house, he put his head down and looked over at the insurance woman. “Ms. Ruiz?”

            “Please, Mr. Schroeder. Call me Alayna.”

            “It’s strange, what you’re proposing. Isn’t it? People in the neighborhood will think I’ve gone crazy.” He rubbed his wet red face into the damp black wool of his sleeve, clearing some of the rain and tears from his eyes. Expectantly he looked up, scanning her appearance for any signs of a hustle. Nothing. Alayna Ruiz was either a world-class actress or exactly what she said she was. “I’m not sure I can go back in there,” he said, leaping off the subject to think about the home that was now just a building where he’d have to sleep. “It’s probably best to sell it. Just leave it behind. Pathetic, I know, but wouldn’t that be better for coping?”

            She leaned forward and uncrossed her legs in a slow and motherly fashion. Ms. Ruiz was remarkably attractive, Schroder realized, young and comforting all at once. Her image belonged in some grand museum, painted by a master and dramatized in chiaroscuro. The thought lasted a second or two before retrieving, ebbing away for the sadness that had pitched a tent in his brain.

            “Kip,” she said, seeing his hand move to the door handle, “I suggest you don’t go back in there.”

            “I have to.”

            “Not yet. Have the limo take you someplace. Anywhere you’ve ever wanted. It’s the worst time in the world to be talking about R and R, but a new local might distract you. Distract isn’t the proper word, but I believe you understand what I’m conveying. Give it a week.”

            “Is that how long it takes to forget about my family?”

            She put her little hand on top of his as he began to pull the door latch. “That’s not what I meant.”

            “I’m sorry. That came out hard.” Schroeder imagined his wife’s hand in the place of Ruiz’s, staying him from some decision he was hell-bent on making. He was lost without Nicolette. Nicky. Nicks. My love. My wife until death. But it was supposed to be my death. I was five years older. She was the picture of health. I’ve been drinking too much the last few years. I’ve been smoking cigarettes, maybe a dozen a week without telling her.

            “It’s not a problem. And you don’t have to apologize. I can’t say that enough.”

            “What?” Kip said, turning off the mental pictures of his wife and the failure’s he hid from her.

            “You said you were sorry,” Alayna answered. “Apologies are my department. This is such an intrusive process at the beginning—we’re well aware of it, believe me.”

            “But the quicker after the tragedy, the more effective—”

            “Exactly. I can show you the data from participants in the beta testing. We can go through it as rigorously as you want.”

            He let his hand slip off the handle. She was right about going back to the house. What would he do once he got inside? Watch TV? Get some work done?

            “So I’m assuming when I’m gone, your people will see to all the changes. That’s how it works, right?”

            “It’s a big project. Living there while we do the floors and ceilings isn’t really a viable option.”

            “I’ll go.”

            “Very good. I’ll have the driver take you to the airport. We have a private plane at your disposal. Just decide and the pilots will take you anywhere you want to go.”

            “Then I come home.”

            “You deserve a home, Kip. Once you’re back, I’ll be here to explain the particulars and provide any assistance. Seeing them again will help. I wouldn’t do this job if I hadn’t witnessed the results with my own eyes.”

            Schroeder’s head was foggy and still laden with questions, but he didn’t have the energy. “Do it. I’ll see you in week.”

            Alayna Ruiz was standing in the yard when the limo pulled up to his house a week later, smiling with a muted level of appropriateness. She walked up and met him at the door as he stepped out, extending her warm little hand. “How was Iceland?” she asked.

            He scanned her for any chinks in her armor, perhaps a hint of sarcasm in her visage. Nothing. Just perfect skin and straight teeth and a compact, womanly body. “I know what you were thinking,” Kip said.

            “What was I thinking, Mr. Schroeder?”

            “You were thinking I went to a place where I could kill myself in perfect isolation and never be thought of again.”

            She tilted her head and looked to her feet. “That’s really not what I was thinking, Mr. Schroeder.”

            “I’m sorry. I’ve been drinking a lot. Hanging out with a bunch of people that look like Thor. A little off, is all.”

            “I see,” she said, looking back up at him. His face was coated with a week’s worth of stubble. He had a decent sunburn from walking up and down volcanic beaches with his hands in his pockets like an asshole, pondering loss like it would get him somewhere.

            “We can—”

            “Sure, we can get started. I’ll run you through the basics. You’ll probably have questions after using the program for a day or two, but we’ll hit enough points to get you going.”

            Kip scratched his stubble and held out a hand in the direction of the house. She started up the incline of the red-brick walkway and stopped on the porch, just to the side of the welcome mat. He stood with his face in front of the rusty knocker, the one his wife hated, that he always meant to replace.

            “Take all the time you need,” Alayna said. She was shifting her weight from her heels to her toes, tapping the cover of the tablet down by her side. “It’s open.”

            “I should’ve replaced this,” he said, on the verge of losing it.

            “We can try again tomorrow,” she whispered. The client was quivering. Not uncommon. Totally understandable. She tried to understand, and she actually could.

            To sympathize.

            A measure of sympathy was part of the job, but gauging readiness and maximizing her time was also crucial; there were other clients, only so many hours in the day.

            “No. I’m going in. It’s not going to get any easier.”

            It might, if you let it. That’s why I’m here, Alayna thought.

            Kip turned the cold brass and gave the door a push. He took a long, heavy step and looked around, anxious to spot the changes.

            Nothing. Everything seemed exactly the same. It even smelled like it did before he left. Before he lost them. He looked over his shoulder at Alayna. “I don’t understand.”

            She closed the door behind and cracked the deadbolt locked. Schroeder was frozen, locked in a struggle between the longed-for past and the strange present.

            “Just breathe, Mr. Schroeder,” she said, stepping away and holding out the tablet. Powering it up, she asked, “Are you ready to see your family again?”

            Alayna didn’t expect an answer. She pressed the home button on the tablet and three square icons appeared in the middle of the screen. After highlighting them all, she pressed the Initiate button at the bottom.

            The three-dimensional images of his family appeared at the same time, instantaneously. They weren’t standing awkwardly in the entranceway, like some TV show brood waiting for dad to come home in the 50s. The Company Programmers had found that settling a client’s mind was easier if they were reintroduced to their lost loved ones by coming home to them as they would on any other normal day. It was five in the afternoon, so Alayna had selected that time before initiating the startup.

            “Hey, Dad,” Jackie said. He was recumbent, sneakers hanging over the end of the couch. Finishing up his homework before dinner. Always a good boy. Myopic, perhaps, a little like his father.   

            Nicolette was sitting with Sally at the long dining room table to Kip’s right. He could hardly see the image of his wife; there were stacks of files blocking the view. Just about right—Nicky was always neck-deep in some case, fighting the good fight for some derelict soul or disenfranchised small business. “How goes it, pal?” she asked, moving her head around the folders.

            “You might want to take a breath,” Alayna said, sidling up close to her client. She could see he was on the verge of tipping over. His eyes were predictably full of tears. Ms. Ruiz put a hand on Kip’s back as the little girl stopped coloring and turned around in her chair. “Daddy!”

            “Oh my God,” he cried, stalled between running toward the perfect image of his youngest and retreating outside to breakdown in the front yard grass. “Oh my God.”

            “I can turn it off,” Alayna said, gently moving her hand to Kip’s shoulder with strategic intentions. She wanted it there to stop him from advancing into the same space as the renderings. Something she’d explain in a moment. Right now, though, she had to let him deal. This was her twentieth case, and they all went a bit different. Kip Schroeder was her first multiple loss—the first triple loss The Company had ever worked with. Her every move had to be calculated and planned, as every one of his was emotional and unpredictable. “Would you like me power it down?”

            She could feel his body starting to move toward Sally’s rendering. Kip felt the slight resistance. “What?” he asked, voice still trembling. His hand was reaching out to Sally—the little girl was in her checkered little school uniform, feet dangling from one of those overstuffed chairs that Kip never failed to complain about.

            “I prefer that you jump in, but there’s a few things to consider. You can run the program as much or as little as you like, any room you like—basically, using the tablet, you can specialize and tailor every situation to your liking.”

            “It’s—I’m sure using it is the best way—”

            “Of course. As an engineer, we feel it’s best you just…”

            “Play around with it.”

            Alayna didn’t answer, but that’s exactly what she meant. “Just remember, starting slow has proved best for our clients. A lot of people want to be surrounded by the renderings all day every day—that’s not the optimal approach, according to all data sets. Grief is a complex process. The point, ultimately, is to become emotionally healthy again. While this means different things to different people, there are certain parameters The Company likes our clients to stay within.

            “What else?” From the tone in his voice, she could tell he wanted her to give him some space. He’d been to hell and back. For God’s sake, Iceland and back.      Understandable.

            “Nothing will take you out of the experience more than moving into the same space as the renderings. They are so sophisticated, many clients forget. They try to hug or embrace—”

            “And the images get washed out.”

            “Exactly. Renderings are generated from the ceiling and floor. The projections are usually a combination of pixels sent from both, but they can work off just one surface. However, interrupting the dimension makes the pixilation process a physical impossibility.”

            “You could use the walls. Coat every surface with it. Hell, coat me with it.”

            Ms. Ruiz knew he was lashing out, but wasn’t about to take it personally. It was time for her to leave. She’d check on Mr. Schroder tomorrow.

            “I’m sorry,” he said, eyes stretched wide enough to burst from his head.

            “Never apologize.” Alayna handed him the tablet and gave his hand a little squeeze of encouragement.

            “What’s your specialty, Ms. Ruiz?”

            “I have degrees in psychiatry and specialized cognitive development.”

            “Huh. Undergrad stuff?”

            “I’m a doctor, actually. And a researcher.”

            He looked away from his “rendered” family for the first time, tilting his head toward her soft, dark face. “Doctor Ruiz? You should’ve said something.”

            “It’s not important.”

            “I bet it is. Otherwise why spend all that time and effort.”

            Alayna gave his hand a final squeeze. Looking into his watery eyes was hard. There was a blundering kindness in Schroeder that she couldn’t reconcile. “I’m going to leave you to it. Remember, start slowly.”

            She walked out, promising to drop by the next day. Driving away from the Schroeder house, she received a call from the Chief Programmer and Company Founder. “Dr. Ruiz?”

            “Yes, sir. I just did the introductory with Schroeder.”

            “I know. We were watching. The Programmers had him as an odds-on favorite for a complete and total collapse. You played it just right. He held up, bless his heart.”

            “He’s a clever man, I think. Strange and thoughtful. I’m not sure he’s convinced of the efficacy of the Process, but hopefully he engages.”

            “It took you time.”

            “Yes, it did.”

            “Strange and thoughtful. That’s what I said about you after you lost Michael.”

            “Is it?” Alayna said, throat catching at the end of the question.

            A brief pause. “Well. Anyway, great job. You’re helping people, Alayna. Never forget that.”

            “I’ll try not to.”

            Two more stop-ins and she was home. Like every night, she took a call from her mother, made dinner, and had a glass of wine.

            An episode of TV. Some work papers that needed a look. Time for bed.

            After an hour of tossing and turning, she opened the drawer to her nightstand and pulled out a tablet, exactly like the one she’d passed to Kip Schroeder. Her thumb rested lightly on the home button for thirty minutes as she sat in bed, negotiating with the urge to press down and activate the Program.

            “I can’t,” she said, shoving the tablet back in the nightstand. “Seven months. Fourteen months. Seven months. Fourteen months. Seven months. Fourteen months…”

            Kip couldn’t decide how to go about it at first; really, he didn’t even know what to call it. The Process. That’s what popped up on the tablet screen when he turned it thing on.

            Considering the obvious weight of trepidation, though, he had to admit that  the programming was phenomenal. In order to make realistic and seamless renderings, The Company had taken every text, email, shared video—every post on social media—thousands of hours of home security camera footage—any and all  portions of the Schroeder’s documented lives. The first night, he had to turn the kids off. They were too real. It wasn’t as if he could control them. Not truly. The A.I. could be adjusted, sure, but he couldn’t make them someone else’s kids. Not that he’d want to.

            Kip was spinning.

            After a half hour, he thought about leaving the house and having it torn down. Schroeder was prone to rashes in times of great stress. He could feel one forming at the base of his neck. An image of Job popped in his head. Another sad dude who lost everything. Then came boils. He didn’t know if the irritation on his skin would turn to boils, but he knew he didn’t have the fortitude of Job. He’d be looking for the backdoor long before the ashes and sackcloth. Kip Schroeder was a decent enough fella by normal standards, but he had nothing resembling Old Testament balls.

            Stop. He decided to watch one of the tutorials. It was a short video of Doctor Ruiz. She had an answer for everything: “Nobody balked at the idea of talking to an old picture or watching archived videos of their departed. Our Process contends and connects with the same sets of neurons and chemical reactions in the brain. There’s nothing to feel ashamed about,” she continued, full-hearted. “It’s brave to face your grief. To remember and feel everything that comes with remembering. Now,” she continued, eyes projecting a disarming warmth, “we don’t like blanket statements, but the Process is for the strong. There will stumbles, but try to move through it.” She smiled and clasped her hands below her waist. “Get out a box of tissues. Laugh. Enjoy. Ride out the complications. It will get better. You’ll get better.”

            As the video ended, Kip set down the tablet, thinking he turned the program off. He sat down on the couch and rubbed his eyes, considering switching on the TV. Maybe a hockey game. Something a normal man would immerse himself in so as to deny, dodge, or deflect any impending emotional breakdown.

            “Kip?”

            He sat up with a shot and turned to see his wife—the holographic rendering of his wife—moving his way. She sat down on the couch next to him, hair up and comfortable in sweatpants, eating a bowl of 100% fatty vanilla ice cream. He guessed the part about the fat, but if this was “Nicolette,” she wouldn’t be bothered with some low-calorie nonsense. The woman never put on a pound. She was too active. Not like him. She used to say he could sit through a hurricane. He wondered if “she” might say it again.

            “What are you doing, bud? You finally have a meltdown? Turn on the TV. I want to watch something.”

            “Uh—what—what do you want to watch?” He was looking at her, but she was staring at the blank screen above the fireplace. Like she probably would.

            “Something,” she said, continuing with the ice cream. “You’re the one always watching stuff. Put on one of your shows.”

            As Kip fumbled for the controller he shuddered. It was an interaction about television, and yet it seemed crucial. There was a fear that he might make a mistake or ruin…whatever this was.

            “Or we could just talk,” she said, finishing with her bowl.

            Now he was petrified. “Talk about what?”

            “Well, you don’t look like yourself.”

            “That’s ironic.”

            “How so?”

            “Never mind.” He finally turned on the TV and flipped it to the local game. She moved a little closer on the couch, but not enough to disrupt the rendering.

            “How are they doing this year?” she asked.

            “They suck. Same as last year.”

            Nicolette laughed. “You say that every year. Let me guess—they need a new goalie.”

            To his own amazement, Schroeder found himself wearing a slight smile. “When you’re right you’re right. They do need a new goalie.”

            “People get attached,” she said, offering a impish grin.

            Kip didn’t smile back. Was this thing playing with him? Was it just one of those quips Nicolette would say that happened to hit too close? Could he get used to this? Am I going crazy?

            A buildup of sweat started to form on his brow. “I’m gonna go to bed,” he said, snatching the pad to shut down the Program. The house was his alone. Again. He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or sad to have her gone.

            Kip looked around the house and spoke to it roundly, as if he was addressing an audience: “This Process sucks ass.”

            Schroeder had been grieving for two months when he first came to truly face the problem. Everything was fine at first, more or less. After trying out the Program that first night, he was unable to resist the pull to once again see his loved ones. Initially it was just chats with his wife. Then his kids. Toe-dipping, so as not to be too overwhelmed. Eventually, he was initiating the Program as soon as he arrived back from work. The house was bustling and happy. A joyful home. Nicolette would say something to make him laugh. His Sally would do one of her little dances or make a face that would break his heart into a billion pieces. His handsome Jackie would say something precocious and lift his soul with pride.

            And then came a question from the boy. “They” were eating at the dinner table when his son said, “Why weren’t you there?”

            The tone of the question stopped Kip from chewing. He looked at his son’s rendering, staring back across the table. Nicky and Sally continued eating artificial food, full of merriment, but Jackie didn’t halt his stare.

            Schroeder tried to change the subject, but Nicky’s rendering leaned toward him. “He was busy,” she said. “Not a bad guy, your dad. Just busy. That’s why he wasn’t there.” It was acerbic, the way the words fell. Like the time they got in that fight over her parents being too involved. She was passive-aggressive that night. He called her out on it. She labeled him absentee this or that but said she forgave him his faults long ago which caused more seething and more invective. Ugly stuff. Real man and wife stuff that you go through because there’s no going around.

            “Busy Daddy,” Jackie said, pointing at him with a smile. Just like she’d do it in—real life.

            Kip fled from the table and fumbled around the kitchen for the tablet. He couldn’t find it fast enough. His thumb shook before mashing down on the power button. His body slumped to the floor. He sat there about an hour, back against the refrigerator. It took thirty minutes for him to notice the handles digging into the back of his head and another thirty to actually move.

            “So I ran from my fake family tonight.” Kip got to his feet and held the phone to his head, doing his best not to look at the table.

            “Mr. Schroeder?”

            “You know it is, Dr. Ruiz.”

            “No—of course—I was at dinner.”

            “I’m sorry. So was I, actually.”

            “Sir?”

            “No. Forget it. I’ll leave you alone. Call you during normal business or whatever.”

            “It’s fine. There’s nothing to apologize for. You’ve been doing great. I can be over in an hour, if that works for you.”

            Kip stumbled. “You don’t—I mean—that’d be—an hour. Sure.”

            “Mr. Schroeder. If it’s okay, come meet me out front when I arrive. And leave your phone in the house.”

            “Will do.”

            It wasn’t the first time the grieving father and widower had called Alayna Ruiz, but it was the first time she’d offered to come over. It had his mind wandering all over the map. He must’ve sounded like a total loon on the phone. Maybe not. She was a psychiatrist. She said that counseling and therapy might enter in at some point in the Process. What about the thing about meeting her outside? No phone?

            Kip looked around the house. He knew his in-home security cameras were active and monitored by software designed to detect any anomalous sounds or images that persisted too long. They also recorded. Everything. The general assumption was that no one would want to actually watch the goings-on of Kip Schroeder’s house just to be invasive, and over the years more and more people like him simply got used to the prospect. The recordings were filed in case any intrusions or accidents occurred on the premises, in order to root out causes in the aftermath of any such occurrence.

            He brushed the thought aside and walked by the table, still trying to shake the cold that went down his spine when Jackie asked the question.

            It probably wasn’t a good idea to break out scotch before the pretty Dr. Ruiz arrived, but Schroeder decided to hell with it. He sat in his leather recliner. The one that faced away from the damn kitchen. An hour’s worth of drinking had him feeling no better. You can’t tell her.

            She looked as lovely as ever, standing in the porch light with perfect hair and perfect composure. “Hey, Doc,” Kip said.

            “Why don’t you come out here. We can get some air.” Her smile was infectious enough to sort of act like an invisible hook, pulling him along. “You left your phone inside?”

            “I did.”

            “Not a good night, huh?” she said, smelling the liquor thick on his breath.

            “Not a good night.”

            “We know the answer to the question.”

            “What question?”

            “The one your son’s rendering asked you tonight.”

            “What is this?” He was wobbly on his feet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            Kip found Dr. Ruiz’s ability to stay calm unnerving at times, but finally she showed some anger. He was grateful underneath the inebriated grumbles. “It’s getting late, Kip. I like you and I want to help. No more bullshit. Try telling me. It’s just us out here.”

            “I was on the way home when they got hit by a drunk driver.”

            “On the way home from what?”     

            “What difference does it make?”

            “In our present reality, there’s no quantitative answer. But it makes all the difference to you. It always will, until you can forgive yourself. You never even went through with it.”

            Schroeder had to sit down in the yard. Ruiz knew. She knew the night his family died, he had planned on having an affair. “Is this part of the Process? Think I might have to give you guys zero stars on your review.”

            “Seriously, Ruiz. Are you this hands-on with all your clients?” The ailing widower had a new bottle in his hand, already a third empty. He passed it to the doctor. They were sitting in the cool grass underneath the big elm smack in the center of the lawn.

            She took a bigger sip than she wanted. It caused her to wince. “That’s—I don’t usually drink from the bottle.”

            “I think you’re avoiding my question, Ruiz.”

            She watched him drift down into the grass, flat on his back. He wasn’t descending into a more reckless drunkenness. More sadness, perhaps. More clarity, somehow.

            “I’m a therapist. And probably smarter than you. And you’ve been drinking a lot more.”

            “So?”

            “So I’m not avoiding anything. This is me letting you have a moment to consider yourself.”

            “What’s that mean?” he asked, holding out fluttering fingers as a callback for the bottle.

            “I won’t fall into your trap. I care about all about all my clients. Every single case is different and requires and an extremely sensitive combination of scientific analysis and human connectivity.”

            “So you’re making sure I’m not hitting on you. Or trying to mitigate the emotions of the situation. Maybe that’s how a woman of science would put it. Mitigate is a good word. Mitt—eh—gate.”

            “I’m going to sit here for a minute or two. If you want to talk about your family or anything else you’re struggling with, I’m here. After that I’ll be on my way.”

            Schroeder finagled his head to see the good doctor. She’d left a good three feet between them and had her butt planted down by his feet. Her knees were pulled to her chest and she was wearing a little sweater over her dress that didn’t cover much. Her heels were off, set neatly by her feet.

            “I’m sorry about what happened, Alayna,” he said. Maybe it was courage that was driving his speech; the idea that it was his turn to get invasive, perhaps. She’d come into his life uninvited. Was he trying to deliver payback?

            He didn’t think so.

            “What’s that mean?” she asked, turning to receive the question, certain that she knew what it would be.

            “Your fiancé. Michael.”

            “How—did you know?” It was strange that she’d never worried about her own personal details being discovered by a client. They were always too encapsulated in their own heartbreak to care about anyone else’s. She’d been warned that it might happen, but after a few months of nothing, it had become a nonfactor. There was so much else to worry about. So many notes. So much time watching these people, trying to get them to a place of living again.

            “You don’t have to say anything,” Kip said, sitting up when the moonlight revealed an imperiled look on her generally pacific face. The bottle slipped out of his hands and good scotch started soaking the dirt beneath the grass. “I wasn’t trying to lash out. Really. Sorry.”

            She believed him. Kip could be a blustery man, but he was never vicious. Completely flawed, but a good person. Maybe better than he actually wanted to be. How many hours had she watched him struggle to overcome this horrible thing that he would face for the rest of his life? It’s not like it would ever be over. Her job was to get him out of the trench, just so he could get running through bullets and barbwire once again. That was the task in a nutshell. That was life, looked at from the suffering side. He wanted to know about Michael. Would it kill her to offer a piece of herself while he tried to claw his way up while the machine guns buzzed over his head? She didn’t know it would get personal to this extent, but she had a feeling something might happen. Why else did she have him come outside, free from the cameras.

            “Don’t be sorry,” she said, softly and with a smile.