IT WAS ROBIN’S fourth day of scrambled eggs and wheat toast in the hospital cafeteria. She’d ordered it her first morning here because it had seemed like a safe choice, and since she’d barely touched it at breakfast, she ordered it again for lunch. It had gotten to the point where the women behind the counter gave her a plate of scrambled eggs without even asking, and she didn’t want to be rude by correcting them. Like any safe thing, the plate of scrambled eggs and toast had begun to get oppressive with time, and now Robin could barely stand the sight of them. Luckily, the coffee wasn’t bad.

The cafeteria was close to empty—just a few members of the hospital staff grabbing a quick bite between shifts. But Robin had a long table all to herself—the better to be alone with her thoughts. She’d been sitting here for a good half hour, maybe longer, thinking about her mother, how she’d snapped at her in the hospital room, then recovered, thinking about what she’d said as she was drifting off, about her father being an anchor and not knowing where she’d go.

She wondered if this was something she might have to get used to, these sudden bursts of rage and worry. Renee had lost a lot of blood in the shooting and had been on life support long enough that it could have affected her brain chemistry. Anxiety and anger issues weren’t uncommon for survivors of traumatic attacks, and the very fact that she couldn’t remember a good portion of the night she was shot seemed like proof—at least to Robin—that she’d been changed in ways that the doctors here hadn’t taken into account. Therapy, that’s what she needed . . .

Interestingly, Renee had never gone in for analysis when Robin was growing up. Despite the fact that she’d obviously had a sad, bleak childhood, Robin’s psychiatrist father discouraged her from talking to anyone about it. Robin could distinctly recall the topic coming up—her mother mentioning a friend of hers, a fellow volunteer at Tarry Ridge Hospital, who’d been going to group therapy and loving it. You don’t want to do that, Renee. Her father had said it as though it was a fact he was reminding her of. Which was strange, now that Robin thought about it. She’d gone for therapy herself as a high school student. And Dad too saw an analyst for a while. But not Mom. Maybe she’d suffered for it. Maybe it was time to change things, to find out who Renee Bloom truly was without that anchor holding her in place.