I SAID, and opened my eyes. Across the desk, Dr. Morehouse gave me a concerned-therapist face. “Better?” he asked. I paused, and checked. Celia’s frenzy was over. So was mine. I felt calm and relaxed. Safe. And not quite so wounded. “We’ll work on this together, once a week,” he reminded me. “We can’t do it all in one day, so you need to be patient. Today we just got started.” “It’s just . . . ” I tried to find the words to describe how badly I needed this to be fixed, now. It could be a matter of life and death. Correction: it already was. “Healing takes time,” he said. “It’s not like we can do something once and be done with it. There’s no shortcut. No pill, no shock therapy. No special surgery—” “Like a lobotomy,” I blurted. He looked at me strangely. “Miles Winters was just discussing that with me.
