“How do you know?”
“Miguel messaged the distance discrepancy.”
“Privacy is fictional.”
“Why?”
I sat on the treatment table.
“Panic signs.”
“How severe?”
“Three.”
“Out of ten?”
“Yes.”
“Physical symptoms?”
“Tingling. Heat. Sound distortion starting.”
“Breathing?”
“Controlled.”
“Thoughts?”
“Leave. Don’t leave. Prove it. Same mess.”
Rose pulled over the stool.
“You chose another street.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“It doesn’t feel good.”
“Because you wanted the intersection to certify you as recovered.”
I picked at a loose thread on my shorts. She waited.
“I told Amy I wanted to finish her run safely,” I said.
“That was honest.”
“I did not tell her the intersection was the exact place.”
“Why?”
“I will tonight.”
Rose kept her pen poised.
“I will.”
