‘So, tell me, Daniel James,’ he says, from under unusually long eyelashes, ‘how exactly are you going to fix me?’

The notes Dan has been given on Atticus are brief. Male. Thirty-two. Seeking help for generalized anxiety. Has attended counselling various times. Never stayed for the whole six weeks.

Dan repeats these snippets in his head and tries to work out the best way to respond. Atticus has done this before so he must know how counselling works. He is aware that Dan cannot fix him. Dan doesn’t offer cognitive behavioural therapy, or any other kind of therapy, really. He is simply a counsellor. People talk and he listens. Rephrases their words and offers them back, carefully, with soft hands. His patients receive them like pebbles, smooth and warm in their palms.

Dan organizes people’s brains. That is what he does. That is what he is good at. He is a gentle gardener, concise as he prunes his way through their thoughts. He parts their words like leaves, finds the fronds and petioles. Digs, careful of flints, until he hits milky root. Dan removes the bindweed, tugs at scutch grass, churns the mud until it is rich, chocolatey earth again.

But Dan has no idea what to do with, or for, Atticus, can’t think while his long bare feet are pointed at him, like an accusation.

Dan thinks of Fitz, and counting, and dominoes falling in perfect rows. He thinks of ironed creases in white shirts and his sparkling cutlery drawer, spoons all facing the same way. He thinks of books that have yet to be opened, straight spines, his apple-cutter and the perfect eights it makes.

He says none of this, though. Instead he says, ‘I can’t fix you, Atticus. That bit is up to you,’ then pauses for a beat too long. Atticus makes all the colours in the room bleed. He makes Dan glottalize his ‘t’s. Dan never does that. Missing ‘t’s in words is as bad as skipping over numbers when counting.

The chair squeaks in protest at being sat on after a year spent acting as a prop. Dan has to speak louder. ‘I’m here to help you on your journey.’ He groans inwardly and wonders if he always sounds so clichéd and cringy. He’s got nothing else, though, so has to keep going. ‘This is your fifty minutes. You can talk, and I will listen. Anything you say will be kept within this room, unless you tell me something that puts yourself or others at risk, and then I am obliged to report it to your doctor and any other relevant healthcare professionals.’