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being naked in front of him forces me out of my stupor. As warm water pounds down on my body, cleansing my skin, I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to stave off my thoughts. I reach for the faucet and turn it to cold. The icy water prevents me from thinking. Shivering, I wash my hair, and when I’m done, I towel off and change into the clean clothes Dad set out for me on my bed, like I’m five years old again. I floss my teeth until my gums bleed.
    As we drive to the emergency peanut butter killer meeting he’s set up, Dad babbles, carrying on a nervous monologue that sounds a lot like gibberish in my ears.
    I walk into the office of the counselor and figure out a few things. His name is Bob. It’s written on the plastic sign on his door. Bob Kissock. Also, he wears too much cologne. It smells up the tiny room and makes me think of men wearing towels around their waists on TV commercials. He’s middle aged and reminiscent of Santa Claus with his gray hair and beard. He’s wearing a red sweater vest over a round belly that stretches over his black pants. He’s got glasses on, but when I look closely I can see that his eyes are kind.
    I sit on the leather couch, preparing to ignore him, but when he speaks his voice is gentle. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” he says. “For what happened.”
    His voice chisels away some of my frostiness. Cold snaps in my bones. I pull my sweater tighter around me, breathing in and feeling tightness in my chest.
    “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. He slides into the chair across from me. His voice is smooth and deep. Reassuring.
    The tightness in my chest expands and travels up to my forehead. It pounds, and I press on my temples to try to relieve the pressure.
    “I would like to help you.” He says it simply but enunciates the words so that they sound authentic and sincere.
    “Yes.” It surprises me. I open my eyes wider, looking at Bob. “Please. Help. Me.”
    He leans over and pats my hand. My shoulders collapse against the back of the couch.
    “I didn’t mean…” I stop, unable to continue, wringing my hands around and around.
    “Of course you didn’t,” he says, and the understanding in his voice nearly slays me. “You need help coping, Sam. And that’s why you’re here.”
    He asks me simple questions in his gentle voice. I answer in one-word sentences at first. My voice is throaty and froggy, as if I haven’t used it in a very long time. Bob gently but firmly describes the stages of grief and guilt. He never takes his eyes off me. He never condescends or tries to tell me how to feel. He explains himself and why he’s asking and continues with more and more personal questions. My body melts a little further. I find myself relieved to be able to feel again, though an hour ago that seemed impossible.
    “Have you been bothered by reporters?” he asks after a pause.
    I shake my head. “Not really. I mean, obviously it’s all over the news. But none of the reports have named me. They’re not coming after me. Even though it’s no secret in this town.”
    “Good.” He nods and presses his fingers and palms together like a yogi or something. “Sometimes the ethics of the news world surprise me. In this case, in a good way.” And then he asks another simple question.
    “Tell me about your mom.” The question throws me off. I struggle not to cry and he looks me in the eye. “It’s okay to cry,” he says.
    I press my lips tight. Swallow and inhale deeply through my nose. I wave my hands in front of my face as if fanning will keep me from giving in to everything I’ve been burying. His permission rips at the imaginary duct tape I’ve wrapped around my heart to keep the sorrow inside. A sniffle escapes, and then I can’t hold it in anymore.
    I use up almost a whole box of Kleenex before I can speak again.
    As I sniffle, Bob talks about loss. And then asks more questions. His gentle voice and kind demeanor allow me to purge things from deep inside, and when