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to study my new assignment. I’m immediately struck by her eyes—a deep dark brown with false lashes and winged eyeliner. They sparkle, but they’re also thoughtful and interesting. I’ll have to wear colored contacts again to hide my blue eyes.
    “She died a little over a week ago,” my father says, reaching to take a page from the file and setting it in front of me. It’s a death certificate. I scan it and find the immediate cause of death listed as “undetermined.” I’ve never seen the death certificate before; they’re not usually in the file. Already I can tell Catalina’s different—there are more therapy notes from doctors who have studied her case. I glance up at my father, but he’s searching through the file for another picture.
    “These are Catalina’s parents,” he continues, tapping the photo of a typical suburban couple. “They’re not coping well,” my father says. “I’ve been treating them myself, but this is one of the toughest cases I’ve ever had. They’ve made themselves sick over it, and they need closure.” He takes off his glasses to pinch his fingers across the bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted. I glance down at the picture.
    The mom appears to be in her thirties, short hair and soft features. She seems sweet, like the kind of mother who packs lunch bags with notes that say I LOVE YOU . The father is big and stocky, a teddy-bear type with a bushy mustache and graying brown hair. They’re both lovely, and I’m immediately sorry that they’ve lost their daughter. I’m sure they loved her a lot.
    “How did she die?” I ask quietly, flipping back to the picture of Catalina. My father seems taken aback by the question. Although I usually know how the assignments died (car accident, for instance), it’s morbid and disrespectful to ask for details. And it makes playing them that much more difficult. To be her, I have to imagine her alive. Alive and breathing with thoughts and desires and goals. Otherwise I’m just another counselor.
    “We’re still waiting for the autopsy results,” my father says. He pulls out another picture, and I feel the weight of his stare. “This is about more than Catalina’s family, though,” he says, snapping the corner of a photo as he lays it in front of me. I immediately turn to him, confused and alarmed. “This is Catalina’s boyfriend,” he says. “He’s part of the closure.”
    “What?” I ask, looking back at the picture. Closure is typically for family only. This guy . . . I study him, noticing the way he sits next to Catalina on a bench, how he stares at the side of her face, his expression a portrait of admiration. Catalina smiles for the camera, but her boyfriend seems utterly consumed by her. There’s a small twinge of longing, and I push the photo aside and turn to my dad.
    “I can’t do that,” I say. “Parents and siblings are hard enough. Hell, I don’t even interact with their friends. And this guy loved her. Look how he’s watching her,” I tell him, pointing to the boyfriend’s face. “What if he tries to kiss me or something? How am I supposed to handle that?”
    “The same way you defuse any situation,” my father says seriously. “You redirect, you reassert the relationship ending they require, and if that fails, you contact Marie for further intervention.”
    “A boyfriend,” I repeat incredulously, glancing down at him. “What’s his name?”
    “Isaac Perez.”
    There are all sorts of competing emotions in my heart, the main one being fear. As a closer, I’ve occasionally had to deal with overattached parents. Okay, I’ve often had to deal with overattached parents. But this would be different. This is a peer, a boyfriend, a guy who’s probably made out with Catalina a hundred times, shared secrets with her. Parents ultimately know the difference between me and their daughter, their flesh and blood. Add hormones to the mix, and I’m not entirely confident in the outcome of this