But the hour sessions felt so damn long. It took me only seconds to cause a bruise. Talking took forever. It had never really been my thing. Not before the accident, and definitely not after. Self-expression hadn’t exactly been a family trait, and now, I just felt like talking would make everything so much worse. So much harder.

“How’s skateboarding going, Daya?”

She was trying to connect with me. I know all your tricks, Doc. “Fine.” I zipped and unzipped my hoodie, appreciating the tiny vibrations it caused in my fingers. “Would love to be doing it right now.”

“I know you would. And I know you don’t love coming here. But I’m grateful you do.”

Well, good for you.

“You must be getting pretty good now. You’ve been skating for quite a while, right?”

I sighed as heavily as I could. “Yup.”

“What’s the hardest thing you’ve learned so far?”

Everything’s hard. Especially the concrete. That’s why I like it. I shrugged.

I could see her uncross and recross her legs from where I stared at the floor. “Sorry if this is a silly question, but do you wear padding when you skateboard?”

I snorted. “No.”

“Doesn’t it hurt when you fall? Or don’t you? Fall, I mean?”

“All the time. It hurts. But it’s fine.”

She paused for a moment, probably searching my face like she often did. I remained stone. “Well, you’re definitely braver than I am. My sport of choice is checkers. Monopoly, maybe. But my husband cheats.”

I glanced up at her. She was smiling.

This was another one of her tricks. Making fun of her husband to get me to lighten up. Like I cared what her dorky husband did or didn’t do. “Those aren’t sports,” I said, knowing full well she knew that.

“You haven’t seen me and my husband play Monopoly.” She was still smiling. I was still not smiling. This never seemed to faze her, which was annoying.

“Daya, we’re almost at the end of our time. Are you sure you don’t want to revisit some of our earlier conversations?”

She was referring to the topic of my parents and my refusal to talk about them. Not so much “refusal,” I guess. More like inability. And maybe refusal.

“I’m sure.”

“You don’t think it will help? Eventually? To talk about them?”

Her habit of speaking in broken, continuing questions irritated me to no end. I shrugged again.

“Most people do find it helpful. I know it might seem like it’s too hard, and it is hard, but what’s the alternative?”

I already had an alternative that suited me just fine. Well, not fine. But it worked to keep things level. To keep life manageable.