Page 120 of Redline Baby

Later, in the truck, Kit lasts four blocks before his leg starts moving. I keep my eyes on the road. Afternoon traffic does what afternoon traffic does, and I merge onto the main street without commentary. Kit’s gaze stays fixed on the passenger window—the city moving past outside, a dry cleaner, a parking structure, a coffee shop with its sandwich board tilted against the wind—and he’s looking at none of it.

“You ever notice,” he says, his voice picking up the particular brightness that means he’s decided on deflection, “how all therapy offices are in the most aggressively beige buildings possible? Like they’re trying to preemptively lower expectations.”

“They’re designed to feel neutral.”

“There’s a very good argument,” he continues, “that today is a terrible day for therapy. Emotionally speaking. I’ve had a very full week. Overstimulated. I should probably sit with what I’ve already processed before I add more material.”

“That argument is not going to work.”

His fingers drum their pattern against his knee.

“Worth a shot.”

Kit shifts in his seat. The drumming stops, then starts again, slightly faster. The therapist’s office building appears on the right about eight minutes later. It is, in fact, beige. A glass front door. A small placard beside it. A parking lot with painted lines and three empty spaces near the entrance.

I turn in, find a space, and cut the engine.

Kit doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

I give him space.

Eventually, he turns toward me.

His chin is set at the angle I’ve come to recognize. Not defiant. Stubborn, which is a different animal. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, and his eyes are already bright at the corners.

“Please, Daddy,” he says. “I don’t want to do this.”

I turn toward him fully and stroke my thumb across his cheek.

“I know you don’t.”

His jaw tightens beneath my hand.

“But you’re going to do it anyway, because you’re a good boy and you follow through even when you’re scared.”

The stubborn set of his chin doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t need to. I’m not asking him to stop being afraid. I’m asking him to walk through the door while afraid. I hold his gaze.

“Right, sweetheart?”

He swallows.

“Right?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

The words are small. My thumb moves once across his jaw.

“Good boy.”

I let him go and open my door. I walk around the truck, open his door, and hold out my hand. He looks at it. Then at me. There’s still a slight pout on his bottom lip when he takes it.

The waiting room is neutral and boring, exactly as he predicted.

I’ve been sitting in it for forty minutes. My phone is open to a parts supplier’s catalog because I need a replacement primary case for the Norton and my usual supplier is backordered. I scroll without urgency. The receptionist has answered the phone twice. The plant in the corner is almost certainly fake.

Kit comes through the therapist’s door at exactly fifty minutes. He waves goodbye to her, then looks across the waiting room. He sees me. Something in him goes slightly less guarded.