Always the same. Do you feel like dying? How many times have you thought about suicide? Do you feel like a burden to those around you? And all her answers were on the little card she filled out at the beginning of every session. The one he glanced at after each question as though he was trying to catch her in a lie. The only lie between them was how this continuous conversation about her depression was supposed to make her feel better when it only reminded her of her guilt—and the fact that she was broken.

“If we’re going to make progress with your treatment, you’re going to have to let me know what you’re thinking.”

Lane stared at her psychiatrist. Wasn’t that his job? To tell her what she was thinking and why she was thinking it? And more importantly, what was wrong with her? Why she was this way and how she could fix it? Yes, Dr. Wong. Please tell me why I feel broken and not worth the breaths I take every single day. Oh, and if you have an answer for the guilt . . . She smirked. Those questions had gone unanswered all her life. Not even God heard her prayers. Or if he did, he chose to ignore them . . .

“What about activities? Are you doing anything fun?” Dr. Wong ran his fingers across a thin mustache and down the sides of his mouth to the goatee on his chin. He had more hair on his face than on his head, and it was graying, which was the only part of the man that made him look like a head doctor. The black T-shirt, dark jeans, and Converse high-tops gave the impression he was more of a hipster. Was the comfortable look supposed to make him easier to talk to?

“Lane?”

Fun? When was the last time she had fun? Laughed? Charlie. Lane shifted in the leather chair. He’d brought a smile to her face—a rarity the last two years. In fact, she smiled, laughed even, every time she thought about the way Wilbur, Clarence, and Ducky had harassed him inside the Way Station Café. What did that mean? Acknowledging the feelings Charlie stirred up within her felt like a betrayal. It unnerved her.

“Life’s busy.” Safe answer.

Dr. Wong tapped his pen against the notebook in his lap. If he was annoyed by her answer, she couldn’t tell. He seemed to always be studying her. Maybe, like her, he was trying to figure out why she was so defective. “What about your family? This is a big time in your lives.”

“Their lives.”

“You don’t think your father’s campaign affects your life?”

Lane thought about the words her father had spoken to her—his demands for her presence. The inherent threat if she failed to do her part. And pretend. She shrugged.