Wednesday found Cain again in Dr. Ava's office.
He sat in his usual chair, slouched back as if trying to claim more space than he needed, but his body gave him away — shoulders tight, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the armrest.
The doctor said nothing.
Only the dry scratching of her pen — no, not a pen, something sharper — drifted through the room. A faint rasp, like a claw dragging across glass. She wrote quickly, head tilted, eyes fixed somewhere below him, not quite seeing him at all.
Cain's gaze slid to the little drinking bird on the desk — the toy that dipped its beak again and again into a glass tinted with blue solution. Its motion was hypnotic, calm and maddening all at once.
A minute passed. Or two. Maybe three.
Neither of them spoke. The silence grew so deep it began to hum.
The clock ticked. Cain's heartbeat tried to match the rhythm — and failed.
