‘It’s always the same one,’ I say. I’ve had it for years, and other clients have commented on it, too. It’s the one my father gave to me when I graduated.

‘It looks fancy.’

‘We’re talking about your medication, Xanthe.’

‘Alright,’ she says. ‘I’ll try to remember to take it every day.’

I glance down at the pen, and the inscription on the side. Introspection is always retrospection. Sartre’s words, not Dad’s, but now and then I read them and think about him. I think about the past.

Chapter Three

THREE

JOE IS THERE in the waiting area after I see Xanthe out through the side exit. There is one entrance for patients arriving and a separate exit for patients leaving that runs into the alley beside the building and back out onto the street. Hunched over, filling the seat and plugging at the phone in his doughy hands is Joe. He looks up when I step into the waiting area. Joe grew up Catholic and his wife is still religious, even if he isn’t. The only issue he has admitted to having is the fact he doesn’t like how much time he spends on his phone – a complaint 90% of the population might make. Sometimes it frustrates his wife, he says. He will download a game and play it until 1 am while his wife sleeps next to him. Or sometimes he will go out and sit in the lounge and have a drink alone. His wife has woken in the night wondering where he is.

He lumbers in and is courteous enough to jam his phone into his pocket, but I can see his mind is still fixated on the game he was playing.

‘So, what’s new, Joe?’

‘Not much, really,’ he says.

‘How is work?’

He frowns, looking down at his hands. ‘It’s okay.’ Okay, but not good. ‘I’ve had some trouble with sleep, lately.’

Games before bed? Or maybe booze? ‘Are you finding you can’t fall asleep or are you waking in the night?’

‘Both, but it’s mainly the dreams,’ he says.

‘What are you dreaming about?’

He licks his lips. ‘Well, they’re more like nightmares … I don’t know.’