“An experience?” I say, rolling my shoulders, suddenly annoyed. “Only if I can keep my notes organized enough so I can read about it later.” I shake my head. How could I do something like this without messing up? Without exposing the real me? I feel the blood pulsing under my skin. “Yeah, that seems like a pretty stupid idea.”

There’s a long silence, and then Kate shifts in her seat, closes her file folder, and crosses her legs at the ankles. “But how will you know if you don’t try it?”

I give her a look. “I can’t remember a damn thing, Kate. How will I know either way?” My words come out biting, rude, and I suck in my bottom lip, ashamed. Kate’s only trying to help.

She shrugs, seems unfazed. “True, true. But still.”

I read once more—I wish I could teach again—and straighten up in my chair. A tingling sensation fingers into the muscles of my back. Maybe she has a point. I pull a black felt-tip pen from my bag, underline the sentence, flip forward, and jot it under today’s date. Then I pull out my folder labeled “THERAPIST SESSION CURRENT,” record I wish I could teach again, followed by, teach guitar? But when I read it over, my pen freezes above the page and I have to fight the urge to rip the paper out. What makes me think I could ever do something like this? It’s an impossible dream. I cross it out once, then twice more. I’m not the kind of person who can dream.

My phone dings and I glance at the screen. Session is over. Drive home to Whittier. Text Ruth that you’re leaving and will make 1:30 tunnel. “Time’s up,” I say. I open my text messages and send a quick message to Ruth before sliding my notebook and file folder into my bag. The one-lane tunnel switches directions every fifteen minutes, which isn’t too bad unless a train comes through, and that will have me waiting longer than normal. When I stand I sling the strap over my head, letting it rest across my shoulder. “Thanks, Kate. I think this was a good session today.”

She smiles, stands. “I agree.”

My car idles at the signal outside the tunnel. A vehicle is allowed in every fifteen seconds, so I watch as the taillights of the sedan ahead of me glow red in the dark tunnel, wait for the signal to turn green. My voice floats from the car speakers, giving me a repeating loop of instructions: You are driving home to Whittier from Anchorage after seeing Therapist Kate. You are driving home to Whittier from Anchorage after seeing Therapist Kate.