It had been a long day and it was past dinner time, but Callan sat on the soft leather chair in his therapist's office.
His hands were resting on his knees. He kept moving his fingers, tapping them on his legs, because it felt like if he didn't move them, he would jump out of his skin.
The room smelled like lavender. There was a tall plant in the corner, and a small water fountain making soft splashing sounds.
The therapist, Dr. Reynold, was sitting across from him. She had warm brown eyes and a notebook on her lap. She didn't write anything yet. She just watched him quietly.
Because of his busy schedules and because of his reputation, they always had his sessions late in the evening when no one else was around to see him go in or out of her office.
"Callan," she said gently, "how are you doing today?"
"I don't think I'm doing so well," he said after a moment, letting out a deep sigh.
