‘How are you, Xanthe?’ I begin.

‘I’m okay. I’m doing okay,’ she says.

‘What’s on your mind?’

‘Right now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m thinking about you, actually.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about me?’

‘You look pretty today,’ she says, glancing up. I’m reminded of Gabe’s old comics he keeps in our storage unit. Harley Quinn. I see something chaotic in Xanthe’s smile, the way her cupid’s bow lips curl up at the corners.

‘We’re talking about you today, Xanthe, not me. How have you been feeling lately?’

‘Not good.’

‘Not good?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I’ve been feeling anxious and worried.’

‘Any more cutting?’

She pulls the sleeve of her hoodie up an inch revealing a razor thin scab.

‘Is that new?’

‘Two days ago.’ It took a long time to get this level of trust. Only twice has she shown me any of her scars. Xanthe cuts, but it’s manageable. The approach is to replace that impulse with another behaviour, slapping a rubber band against her wrist or folding paper. Xanthe also reports she has spectrophobia, a fear of mirrors. It’s rare but people with extremely poor self-image can sometimes develop it.

‘Was there anything happening when you felt like hurting yourself?’

‘Jacob wasn’t texting me, I was worried.’ Jacob. The boyfriend. On again off again. Xanthe’s moods oscillate wildly, and this relationship is the gauge of how far she swings. I’m working on building her self-worth, separating her sense of self from Jacob.

She continues speaking, staring at my hands where I hold my pen and pad. ‘Mum has a place out in the country and it’s empty all the time. I know where she leaves the key, so I thought about going there and just, I don’t know … maybe, like, hanging myself.’

I swallow. Xanthe was prescribed antianxiety meds by her doctor when she was referred on to me. ‘Have you been taking your medication?’ I know the answer before I ask the question; I only need to look at the chewed nails, the wild searching eyes. She’s as twitchy as a lizard.

‘Umm, most days.’

Inwardly, I sigh. ‘Most days?’

‘It makes me drowsy.’

‘I think you need to keep taking it, Xanthe. Just for now.’

Xanthe lies, that’s another thing about her. She told me her brother died in a motorbike accident then she told me he died of leukemia. She told me a high school teacher molested her and then she acted as though she’d never said that at all. She’s not had a good relationship with any men including her father, who left before she was born and she fought with her mum a lot and soon found herself booted out of home.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she says, still staring at my hands. ‘You always have nice pens,’ she adds.