“What, do you think I’m cracked in the head or something?” I joke, trying to play it cool.

“No, Caleb,” she says, the pitying look replaced with something softer. “I think you might just be a little different from your average teenager.”

“Great,” I mumble.

“Caleb, are you familiar with the term ‘empathy’?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” I say after a second. She keeps making hard turns in our conversation and I’m struggling to keep up. “It’s, like, being able to relate to what people are feeling, right?”

“Yes, exactly: being able to understand someone’s emotional state. Empathy is something most of us experience, but everyone experiences it differently. Some people have a complete lack of empathy—”

“What, like, psychopaths and stuff?” I ask, my heart starting to race.

“Yes, often the people that we think of as ‘psychopaths’—people who hurt others—experience less empathy, which can lead to violent behavior. But that’s not always true for people who lack empathy.”

“Just because I hit a guy doesn’t mean I don’t care about people,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest. I don’t like what this lady is suggesting. I know I sometimes fly off the handle, but I like to think I’m a fundamentally good dude.

“That’s not at all what I’m suggesting, Caleb,” she says earnestly. “I think you might be in the opposite position, in fact.”

“Huh?”

“I’m curious—these mood swings that you’ve been experiencing, when do they happen?”

“What do you mean?” I’m thrown again, not following her train of thought. It’s frustrating.

“When you’re alone, how do you feel?”

I have to think about it for a second. I try to remember the last time I was alone. Last night, in my room, reading before bed. My dad has this archaic rule where Alice and I aren’t allowed to have screens on for half an hour before we go to sleep. So I read. The memory floats into my brain and a blanket settles over me again. Except this time it isn’t too stuffy. It’s light and soft—like this old knit throw that my grandmother made for me when I was a kid. It’s made of this really light yarn—cotton or something—and it’s cozy but not too warm. I loved sitting out on the rocking chair on our porch on summer nights, all curled up in it. Especially when there would be thunderstorms. I’m transported there instantly in my head—I can smell the mix of the rain and the flowery smell of the yarn and it’s like the invisible pressure around me now tightens momentarily, but in a good way.

“Being alone is nice.”