Everything seems like it ought to be bright and shiny and warm at the end of July, and most things are, but when he closes the office door and it’s only him and the telephone, him and the disembodied voices—some of them whispering, calling out for help, some of them shrieking out threats of harm or suicide—things suddenly don’t have the same cloud-free warmth the weather girl was forecasting during his morning commute.
The news is bad on all fronts.
Two clients spent the night screaming and moaning at the crisis bed, another has deliberately underdosed herself, believing her demons feed on her drugs.
Page after page, his case notes read like a novel co-authored by Franz Kafka and Clive Barker.
Even the normally upbeat and flirtatious intern who comes every morning to take his coffee order, seeing him at work through the doorglass, backs away slowly, decides to just order his regular black with sugar, skip the Danish, then turns and slips down the corridor to the next office.
Things’ll be better when I get back, she thinks, stepping out into sunshine that feels like it was made with her mind in mind.