I almost began to run toward the front entrance, my pace quickening noticeably. I was finally there. The anxiety that had been creeping up my neck began to settle back down, slinking back to where it came from.
Suffocation—that was the best way to describe what it felt like to leave the comfort of my home.
Gripping the large commercial doors, I yanked them open and stepped inside.
The golden elevator doors were already open, ready to accept me. I stepped in and pressed the number six on the panel, then jabbed theclose doorbutton repeatedly until the doors finally obeyed and began to move. A breath escaped my lungs—subtle, but full of relief—as the elevator lifted me gently toward the sixth-floor office.
When the doors opened, they revealed the front desk of Dr. Rachel Montgomery, PsyD.
The receptionist recognized me and gave a small wave, simultaneously pressing the button to notify Rachel that I wason my way in. I returned a half-hearted smile and walked past her, heading straight for the office door.
Inside, Rachel sat in the beautiful white chair that was somehow both effortlessly elegant and comfortable. She stood to greet me, as she always did, and gestured toward the couch—the one I had spent more time on than my own.
“Good afternoon, Lennon. So lovely to see you again,” she said cheerfully.
I smiled faintly. “Back at you.”
Rachel sat down, notebook and pen already in hand. I lowered myself onto the couch, tossed my crossbody bag onto the floor, and reached inside to pull out a folded piece of paper—the one I had brought specifically for this very conversation.
I had been researching a program for weeks, and I couldn’t bring it up yet without knowing every detail—every requirement, every outcome, every loophole—in case Rachel tried to talk me out of it. I needed to be prepared. I needed to have a leg to stand on.
When I looked up, she was already watching me with curiosity.
“I have something I’d like to talk about,” I said, searching inside myself for even the smallest shred of confidence.
Rachel gestured gracefully. “The floor is yours, Lennon.”
I unfolded the paper slowly and took a deep breath.
“I’m interested in joining this pilot program,” I started.
Rachel’s expression shifted—subtly, but I saw it. She already knew what was coming.
She nodded for me to go on.
“This pilot program is happening now, here in the city. And I want to apply for it. I want to apply for the Assisted Suicide for Mental Health program.”
Asher
Three Years Ago
Puck on stick, I was making a huge breakaway. I needed Ryan to hurry the fuck up and give me backup to open up an opportunity for the puck to reach the net. I had to make a split-second decision—was I going to deke out the goalie, or was I going to pass it to my forward? Actually—where the fuck was he?
Heart racing, I approached the net with sheer speed and determination. The goalie was already in his crouched position.Fuck Ryan.I was on my own, I guessed. I eyed the opposing goaltender as he crouched slightly lower. Peering down, I made a quick assessment—should I go top cheese or five hole?
I could feel the other team gaining on me. I needed to shoot the fucking puck. I wound my arms back, outstretched to slap the puck into the net at the top right corner. My peripheral vision was fading, my heart pounding like hell.Fuck, I needed to hit the puck. I needed to…
* * *
Feeling as if my body were underwater, my eyes began to driftopen. In a haze, I saw my mother standing next to my bed, tearing up as her fingers laced through mine. She looked at me as she noticed my eyes fluttering open, then turned to get the attention of the nurse by my bedside.Why was I in the hospital? Did I crash into someone and get a concussion? Did I score?
Overwhelmed, I began to sit up and reached for all the cords and tubes strapped to my body, pulling at them to free myself. My vision was still hazy, my thoughts jumbled. The nursing staff rushed to hold me down and removed my hands from the IV pumping fluids into the top of my hand.
“Stop, baby,” my mother pleaded. I paused and stared at her, trying to find my centre.Why was she so upset?I had suffered concussions before, and she had never reacted like this.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” I asked.
She scoffed, wiping away a tear that had fallen. “You’re sitting in a hospital bed, that’s what’s wrong.”
