“Before we start, I meant to tell you, turn off your social,” said Anita, who was speaking fast and eating with chopsticks. Lissa watched her hands, fascinated.

“What?” said Lissa. “What’s that got to do with PTSD?”

“What have anxiety-creating engines designed to distract, enervate, and worry you got to do with your mental health?”

Lissa frowned. There was a cough on the other side of the computer screen.

“I know,” said Anita, but not to Lissa. The forlorn cough came again. “Sorry,” said Anita quickly. “I had to keep her home from school.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Lissa.

“Iz fine,” came a small voice, followed by another racking cough.

“She’s not fine. She just wants to watch Frozen again.”

“Maybe you’ll start telling your clients to build a snowman,” said Lissa, and the two women smiled briefly at each other.

“Have you got the trial date yet?” asked Anita.

“No. It’ll be ages away.”

“It probably won’t,” said Anita. “They fast-track these things, particularly with young lads.”

Lissa sighed.

“So you’re going to have to be ready,” said Anita unnecessarily. “If you can’t stand up and tell your story, there might be a mistrial. The perpetrator might be freed. There might be no justice.”

Lissa’s heart sank again. “Why does that mean I have to give up my social media?”

“Are you on it a lot?”

Lissa glanced at her phone. Kim-Ange appeared to be wearing a bowl of fruit on her head. “That depends how you define a lot.”

“It’s going to really impact your recovery,” said Anita, slurping. The coughing began again.

“How?”

“It’s making you ill. It’s making everyone ill with jealousy and self-doubt, and you are particularly vulnerable and in danger from it.”

Lissa looked at Anita. She had a large splotch of curry sauce on her cheek, but her expression was serious.

“But I’m out here all alone, and then I’ll be even more alone.”

“Good,” said Anita. “Use your inner resources. Stop trying to distract yourself with tiny pictures and other people’s lives. You’re distracting yourself from things you ought to be owning up to.”

Lissa was biting her lip.

“Feel,” said Anita. “You have to feel what you need to feel. Not distract yourself every five seconds. Not be constantly waiting for pings and swipes and likes and enervating yourself. Trust me, Lissa. You are already enervated. You need to get ready to tell this story and you have only four more sessions. Embrace the way you . . . oh.”

“What?” said Lissa, but there was no need. Loud and painful sounds of vomiting were coming off-screen.

“Not . . . not on the files!” Anita screamed as she jumped up.