She forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “Don,” she said, quickly, nodding in greeting. “Where’s the bike?”

Dr. Mitchell glanced at his parked Prius and sighed. “Had my ride earlier this morning,” he said. “Blew a tire, though. Have to patch it up before I can ride again, unfortunately.” He glanced from Ilse, to her door, and then, like a spotlight, his eyes flicked to her foot on top of the postcard. Just as quickly, his gaze bounced up.

Ilse could feel her emotions a whirring mess. Pieces and fragments of pieces drifted loose and untethered in her thoughts, like divers severed from a ship, drifting in the murk away, away, away…

Sometimes a squirrel fled by choice, and other times by tragedy.

“What are you doing here?” she said, quickly, then wincing and realizing how hard her tone sounded. She coughed and adjusted. “I mean, it’s nice to see you. But don’t you have class in the morning?”

Dr. Mitchell smiled. “It’s only seven, dear. Class doesn’t start until nine.” His prosthetic arm hung loose by his side. An open, vulnerable posture. His eyes fixed on her now, searching, concerned. “I just wanted to stop by,” he said. “See how things were going with your new client.”

Ilse blinked, swallowing. She could feel her foot stuck to the postcard as if rooted in cement. For one, brief moment she wanted to scream. To tell him everything, to let everything flood from her lips. Hell, he didn’t even know her real name. Didn’t know about Germany. Didn’t even know her accent was practiced, learned.

No one knew. But no one could, could they? Some secrets were best left buried. Was she in danger, though? She didn’t look at the postcard, shifting her weight a bit before saying, offhand, “You haven’t been sending me postcards, have you?” She tried to keep her tone breezy, but Dr. Mitchell’s eyes narrowed instantly. He stared at her, watching, searching, and she felt like she was a specimen being examined beneath a microscope.

At last, though, he shook his head. “No, dear. Should I have been? Are you all right, Ilse, you seem put out.”

She tried to smile again, but the expression died before it even reached her lips.

She stepped down from her door now, taking the stairs and kicking back dust and pine needles for good measure, leaving the postcard where it had fallen. Dr. Mitchell was frowning. “Are you all right?” he said, softly, repeating the question, both concern and worry in his tone.

Ilse blinked as another memory surfaced. This one recollected, cataloged, held in a precious part of her thoughts. A memory of first meeting Dr. Mitchell. He’d caught her sneaking into his classes. She hadn’t been a student at the time, not when they’d first met. He’d found it amusing that a teenager would want to take an advanced graduate class on Abnormal Psychology. Instead of kicking her out or reporting her, he’d invited her to his office. After one conversation, he seemed to have decided she was worth investing in.