“What am I just in time for?” I inspected the garden in front of me, an inkling of suspicion forming in my belly.

“Getting our hands dirty.” She moved toward a table and picked up a small spade.

“Are we . . . burying something?”

“Yes, my last client,” she said and then burst out laughing so loudly that a small bird in a nearby tree got a fright and flew away quickly.

I looked at her. The suspicion was no longer just an inkling, and my heart thumped against my chest.

“Just joking!” She stopped laughing and passed me the spade. “You’re okay with getting your hands dirty, right?”

“It depends.”

“But you’re an artist, aren’t you? Pamela says you’re an incredible one, so I would imagine you’re often covered in paint,” she offered with a big smile.

“Yes,” I half mumbled under my breath. I had no idea where this conversation was going.

“Soil is just another medium of expression. Come, the plants are calling.” She pranced off, and I followed her up the path tentatively. When she reached a large flower bed, she lowered herself onto her knees, then patted the ground next to her.

“Come. Sit. I hate being indoors. Especially on days like this.” She inhaled long and loud. “Great day, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” I said very noncommittally. I suppose I could have said what I really thought—that the day wasn’t nice at all, it was muggy, the sun was trying way too hard, making the air feel thick, making me sweat and freckle—but I didn’t.

I lowered myself to my knees; it wasn’t comfortable. Fat girls on their knees, not the most comfortable thing. Our weight pressing down onto our legs, pins and needles in feet as blood circulation is cut off. God, I hoped my toes weren’t going to fall off or something. Imagine that. I arrive at my new therapist with ten toes and leave with none. I wonder if that would be considered malpractice? And then I looked over at Dr. Stride again, and something hit me. Something obvious and glaring, and I wondered if this was the reason Dr. Finkelstein had sent me here—the thought made me so embarrassed that my cheeks went red. Because Dr. Stride was large. Okay, now I’m using a euphemism. She was fat, and I couldn’t believe that I was only noticing it now. I guess when I’d first seen her I’d been distracted by all the color. She was also tall, with big feet, hands, and ears. Nothing about her was delicate or subtle; everything about her demanded that you notice her, and I got the distinct impression she didn’t care either.