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Frances, given a shot of something, and left on the floor. That would’ve sucked shit out of a dead dog’s ass if whatever was in that needle hadn’t made me care about exactly nothing. I was high as a kite, living between sleep and wakefulness, completely aware yet unable to control my own thoughts or body. At least the pain of arousal was gone, like a candle snuffed with spit-wet fingers.
    Over and over, I went back to the moment I’d attacked Deacon because I’d been frightened. I discovered details, scents, sounds, and I found peace in it. I’d done it as some sort of reaction to the night, not out of anger. Not in some Machiavellian vision of sharp premeditation. It was just some crazy shit where I was startled and stabbed him.
    A little voice piped in through the scene. Who does this? Have you ever heard of this happening before? Why would this make sense?
    But that voice didn’t want me to be happy. That voice was my father with his critical disappointment and my sisters with their distaste.
    No, fear made the most sense.
    “Fiona.”
    I came around enough to feel the hard floor beneath me, my cheek on cold linoleum.
    “Fiona.”
    That voice again. Soft putty. The thick fat at the top of the cream jar.
    “Doctor,” I said with a chapped voice.
    He crouched beside me with his elbows on his knees, his wrists dangling. “I see your therapy is coming along.”
    “I’ve been proactive about my well-being.” I don’t know how I put the sentence together, but it slid out, and he smiled. “Are you back?”
    “It’s complicated.”
    “Be back.”
    “I’m not coming back unless you play ball.”
    I got up on an elbow, and the world swam until Elliot looked as if he was doing a sidestroke when he righted me.
    “I’ll play.”
    “You’re going to need to rest.”
    “I remember it,” I said. “What happened at the stables. I remember the whole thing.”
    “And? It makes you feel good or bad?”
    Therapist to the core. Facts were fine, but feelings ruled.
    “Good,” I said. “Great even.”
    “Focus on that for now.”
    My brain was cloudy, but I was awake enough to be suspicious of what I had been asked to focus on.

CHAPTER 11.
    ELLIOT
    “T his is a mistake,” Deena said.
    She sat at the round lunch table, a ball of white waxed paper and a half-eaten prosciutto and buratta sandwich in front of her. She’d picked off the arugula.
    “You’re not getting a response. I don’t see the benefit of keeping you on it.” I leaned my back on the counter and crossed my arms. The grey room, with its workers’ comp poster and featureless cabinets, had been the scene of many a discussion about patients when I worked at Westonwood, and I fell right back into it.
    “A real response takes time, not parlor tricks.”
    She was referring to hypnosis, which wasn’t a trick. I didn’t need to defend myself against her for another minute, but I had to get through her first. It begged the question of why I was doing it in the first place.
    “How long do you think she’s going to be here?” I said. “This isn’t a long-term facility.”
    “What do you want out of this, Elliot? Don’t you have souls to save?”
    Frances burst in carrying a stack of folders. She attacked the refrigerator and grabbed a wrapped burrito from the freezer. “Dr. Chapman, thanks for coming.”
    “Frances,” Deena said, wrapping up the remainder of her sandwich with a loud crackle. “Do you know—”
    “I know everything. It’s my job.” She threw the burrito in the microwave and slammed the door. “What’s not my job is getting attacked. So, first. The family wants her out. Why? I don’t know. But the pressure’s making it hard to run this hospital.”
    I didn’t know why either. Frances set the timer with three loud beeps, and the machine hissed and creaked.
    “They want her out to care for her,” Deena said.
    “Oh, please,” I mumbled.
    “First they want her in, then they want her out. I’ve got whiplash