“I know… I—It’s just…” Sam’s voice trailed off, an edge to it. Her eyes shifted toward the door. For a moment, it seemed like she might bolt.

“We can go at whatever pace you like,” Ilse said, in a soft, soothing voice. “It’s your call. It’s under your control.”

Sam braced in her chair, her fingers white against the armrests, but she seemed to calm a bit. “He’s hunting me,” she whispered. “I know it. I’m not making it up.”

Ilse continued speaking in her soothing tone. “The memory exercise will help us. I promise. Would you like to try again?”

Samantha paused for a moment, biting her lip. Her eyes wide, pupils dilated—terror across every inch of her posture. She gave the faintest, most furtive shake of her head, glancing once more toward the glass door of the patio that led to the hall, and the exit.

Ilse uncrossed her arms, placing them delicately on the armrests of her chair. An open posture, subtle but physical communication. She brushed a thumb past her ear, pushing her hair forward again. She liked wearing her dark hair long and loose. No scrunchies or headbands except when she trained at the gym.

Her features were unmistakably feminine, though she didn’t go out of the way to advertise. An upturned, celestial nose and large, searching green eyes made her pretty in a natural, understated sort of way. Ilse had a preference for sweaters and turtlenecks, sweatpants and sandals. She didn’t wear makeup, though she was a big fan of cleanliness and grooming. She had no piercings, and only a single tattoo around her wrist. She glanced down at it, rubbing at the long sleeve of her sweater. The tattoo was visible just beneath the cuff, looping her wrist like a handcuff or a manacle. The words of the tattoo read:

Take captive every thought…

Her new client, Sam, leaned back, wincing and crossing her own arms. A defensive, guarded posture. It was only their first session after all. Samantha Wright had been referred to her by a colleague. From what little Ilse had been told, Sam was exactly the sort of case she specialized working with.

But so far, Samantha seemed hesitant to open up.

Ilse considered this a moment, considered the defensive posture of her client—the crossed arms, the tightened lips. The fluttering eyelids even when closed; the askance glances out the window and toward the door. Ilse ran through the likely culprits, the thoughts coming as easily to her as lyrics from an old tune: Non-integrated emotional trauma. Paranoia? Perhaps. Minimal temperamental and environment protective factors. Psychosomatic anxiety, manifesting in guarded behavior.

Ilse got slowly to her feet, moving over to the desk placed beneath one of the open windows. She made a big show of opening the window a bit further, and then she sat, resettling in the chair by the desk.

The window was irrelevant, but in this new sitting position, they were now a bit further apart, and instead of sitting directly across from Sam, Ilse was facing the lake as well, shoulder to shoulder. A non-confrontational posture. Diminishing necessity for protective defenses. Ilse went quiet, breathing in, out, slowly, waiting, allowing Sam to speak first.