“Both. By—by any of us paying more attention or communicating more, or paying more attention to powers and how powers work, or being a little bit more of an actual family. It could have been better if I’d fought better or harder and torn through some mutant dogs and gotten home sooner, if I’d dodged that one acid spittle or follow-up hit and avoided being taken out of commission, or if one less person had died maybe those of us who were grieving might have been clearer headed and we could have steered things away.”

He gave me a sympathetic look. When he answered me, I couldn’t hear him that well in the physical feeling of how agitated I was and how uncomfortable I was in my own skin. I hadn’t nosedived into panic or feeling off, but I’d walked here and I’d gotten out of breath walking. Now I couldn’t get back into breathing regularly.

I wasn’t making sense, because he didn’t have the context for all of that.

I didn’t want to make sense.

I wanted to put him off balance, to shake him and get more of a sign than a sorry look and kind, quiet assurance that he could put me on the right track.

I wanted to gut him. Not to impale him or tear his stomach out, but to make him feel a fraction of what I felt, emotionally.

“Breathe,” he said.

“I’ve become pretty—” I started. I stumbled on the word.

“Breathe.”

“Pretty accustomed to the breathing, thank you very much.”

“Okay,” he said. “Good. Come back to here. This rooftop. Cool weather, your drink. Have a taste.”

“I’m not not here,” I said. “Okay?”

“Got it,” he said. “Do you want to take a minute to catch your breath? What works for you?”

“I don’t—” I said. I stopped. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want to carry on with that thread of conversation, or would you like to change topics?”

“I don’t see the point in carrying on, I guess,” I said. “I don’t want to sound like I’m resistant to therapy or anything, but I’m kind of frustrated.”

“Okay,” he said. “You don’t see the point—are you frustrated because you think this is insurmountable? Or is it because you don’t feel heard?”

“Both,” I said. “No. Actually, neither.”

He nodded slowly. “Neither, then.”

“I think there are skills I can learn and ways I can deal better. I think this is doable. But I think the way we’re going about it is wrong. Because you hear a good bit of what I’m saying, not all, and you don’t understand.”

“Fair,” he said. “I can’t know your experience. I do think I can come to understand it.”