Juno's apartment is small, functional, nothing decorative beyond what was necessary to make it livable. Stacks of folders occupied one corner of the dining table, their edges aligned too neatly to be casual. This wasn't a space for comfort. It was a workspace. A temporary war room.
I sat across from her, my coat draped over the back of the chair, my bag still on my shoulder like I might need to leave at any second.
Juno slid a printed report toward me.
"Let's stop looking at this like a story," she said. "And start looking at it like a pattern."
I picked up the paper.
School Counselor Evaluation — Nathaniel Rhys.
Archived Behavioral Assessment.
I had already read it once. Twice, even. But rereading it here, under fluorescent lighting with Juno watching my face, made the words feel heavier.
"Read it out loud," she said.
I frowned. "You already know what it says."
"Humor me."
I exhaled and complied.
