I wear shining aether armor. Metal gleams over my arms and chest. Nameless, faceless Regents kneel on the ground before me.

Men in robes playing god.

I level my crystal blade at their throats.

Beside me, Nick gasps. My armor matches his. I am his Squire. But his sword is sheathed. When I reach for his arm, he pulls away like I am a stranger.

I am on my hands and knees in the graveyard, bent over earth and stone with hands smeared in blood.

The graveyard falls into never-ending darkness, black and silent and suffocating.

I sleep until after noon again on Sunday. Nick texted while I was asleep:

Gotta deal with some Order issues. Will try to text later. Have a good session tonight!

Just as I’m leaving for lunch, Patricia texts to ask if we can meet, and I tell her I can’t, that I have to study for my English quiz, which is true. It feels like I haven’t touched a textbook in days.

I fully expect Patricia to keep calling or texting me after I’d run out on yesterday’s therapy session.

I didn’t expect her to show up at my dorm.

I’m so focused on getting out the door to head to the library that I don’t notice her until she calls my name. She has her phone out like she’s about to call me to come down and meet her.

I sigh and walk over. “I didn’t know you made house calls.”

She smiles. “I don’t, usually.” I let her guide me to the grass beyond the sidewalk. Today her glasses are Carolina blue, and her shawl is cerulean and gold paisley.

“Let me guess. You’re here to tell me not to run away from my feelings?”

“I actually just came to check on you after yesterday. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I hike my bag up on my shoulders.

She looks like she has more to say, but decides not to. Instead, she wraps her bare arms more tightly in the shawl. “I realize our sessions together have been very unorthodox.”

I raise a brow. “You think?”

“You’re suffering right now, Bree. More than I realized.”

I look up at the sky. “Isn’t that what grief is?”

“I think you are suffering from traumatic grief now, and if you continue as you are over time, you’ll likely develop a condition called Persistent Complex Bereavement Disorder. Panic attacks, or something like them. Your anger, your distrust of new people, your obsession with the circumstances of her death, and your inability to truly live forward? These are all classic symptoms of PCBD.”

My laugh is hollow and derisive. “Sure. Fine.”

She presses on. “Therapy is only beneficial if the patient wants help with the ghosts that haunt them. And I think that during yesterday’s session, we touched on your ghost.”

“My ghost?” I repeat, bewildered.