Tristan nodded. The fingers on his right hand trembled. He seized them with the fingers of his left, and the nervousness seemed to multiply. His two clasped hands trembled together. He unclasped them, and he smoothed down the lap of his pants before gripping his knees.

“What’s on your mind, Tristan?”

“Everything,” Tristan said.

“Well, that will only take about ten billion years to the twelfth power to get through. Do you have the secret of immortality? Or do you want to narrow it down some?”

It was said in a joking tone, but Tristan didn’t feel much like laughing.

“I did it,” Tristan said. He looked at the therapist.

“What?”

“I killed my brother.”

Dr. Wall nodded.

“Maybe you misheard me? I said—”

“I heard what you said. I’ve been expecting this visit for a while.”

Tristan shivered, whole-body.

“Survivor’s guilt, Tristan. It plays tricks on our minds. We replay scenes over and over again, imagining things with a different emphasis, or we exaggerate details. I’m honestly shocked that it took you two months to come here and say this. I’d even say it’s a mark of extreme emotional stability.”

Tristan laughed, incredulous. “What? No. No, I’m anything but emotionally stable right now. I’m saying I killed my brother. Deliberately.”

The smile fell from Dr. Wall’s face. With it, Tristan’s heart plummeted down to where his balls were. He’d expected this.

“Okay,” Dr. Wall said. “Serious talk. That’s a lot of weight to be carrying on your shoulders.”

Tristan was silent.

“How long have you been wanting to come here and say this?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a month.”

Dr. Wall nodded.

“I almost told Furcate.”

“It’s probably for the best that you didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Tristan said. He laughed, and it sounded fake to his own ears. “Yeah. There’s… there’s preparations to be done beforehand.”

“Preparations?”

“I can’t—he’s in here. He’s been in here for two months. I can let him out, but not before I’ve done something to ensure that it’s not going to get switched around, with me stuck inside for forever. I need to write letters, I was thinking—”

“Tristan,” Dr. Wall said.

Tristan swallowed. His head was shaking.

“You’re a promising hero,” Dr. Wall told him, his voice level and soothing. “And you’re clearly in a bad place. Anyone would start to fantasize after being so close to their sibling at the time of death.”

“It’s not a fantasy,” Tristan said, hands jittery, head jittery, legs jittery. He thought he might punch Dr. Wall, and he knew what a disaster that would be. He’d need cooperation to write the letters, ensure he was protected when he let Byron out.

“You’re a promising hero with a lucrative career with Team Reach ahead of them. I can tell you that nearly every hero that I’ve worked with has gone through a dark period. Their minds play tricks on them, they replay memories in their heads until the footage becomes distorted, and honestly, we don’t love talking about it, but the powers play their role. Yours recently changed. You’ve been adapting, doing okay in the field with the new power. We’re hoping it will change again.”