Description: Chapter One chapter one June 14, 2019 How are things going at school, Declan?" I asked. Declan was hunched over a drawing he''d been working on for the past twenty minutes, showing no sign of having heard me. He was my last appointment of the day. The client before him had been a fourteen-year-old girl with PTSD--listening to her detail her abuse was always gut-wrenching. I usually made sure she was my last appointment, because after an hour of helping her navigate trauma and work on coping mechanisms, I was drained, sick-feeling and headachy. But it was an extra-busy week--too many kids and too little time--so I''d scheduled Declan at the end of the day. Things had been going so well with him lately that I''d actually been looking forward to our session. I''d been seeing Declan for nearly eight months. For the first three, he had sat drawing, giving monosyllabic answers to all my questions. But then, in the fourth month, we''d made a breakthrough. He''d started talking. He''d drawn a picture of a bird''s nest and in it, three blue eggs. Resting in with them was a smaller, speckled brown egg. "Robin''s eggs?" I asked, pointing at the blue ones. He nodded. "But what''s this brown one?" "Cowbird egg," he said. "Cowbirds don''t make nests of their own. The females lay eggs in other birds'' nests." "For real?" I asked. "What happens when they hatch?" "The mother robin or blue jay takes care of it, treats it like the others. But it''s not like the others." This led to a discussion about what it might feel like to be the odd one out, to not belong. Declan loved animals and had an encyclopedic knowledge of animal facts, and I learned to use them as a springboard for our discussions--I even added nature books and field guides to the shelves in my office for us to look through together. Soon, he was opening up about his father''s abandonment, and how his mother continued to lie to him about it--to say he''d be back any day, or that he''d called to check in on Declan and had told her how much he missed his son. "It''s all a bunch of stupid lies," Declan told me. "She''s always telling these crazy stories that I know aren''t true. She thinks she''s protecting me, but really she''s just lying." Declan had come to trust me, to share things that he wasn''t able to share with anyone else. But today, it seemed we were back to square one. I tried to relax my shoulders, put aside my fierce headache and focus on figuring out what was going on right now with this little boy who sat at the small table in my office, studiously ignoring me. The drawing paper was crumpled in places, damp from his sweaty hand; he was grinding the blue crayon into angry, cyclonic swirls. I studied his face, his body language. His dark hair was tousled. His breathing was quick and shallow. The crayon broke in two. He picked up both halves, clenched them in his fist, and continued to scribble hard. "Did something happen at school?" I asked. "Or at home? Anything you want to tell me about?" I felt like I had a spike going through my left eye. Even my teeth ached. I''d been getting migraines since I was twelve, and had learned there wasn''t much that helped them other than holing up in a dark, quiet place, which wasn''t an option right now. Declan was nine years old. He''d been to three schools in the last year, but we''d finally found one that seemed to be a perfect fit--small, alternative, and with a nature-based curriculum that he loved. His mother and I had pushed hard to get him accepted, meeting with the principal and the behavioral specialist, convincing them to take a chance. Declan seemed to be thriving. He was doing well with academics and fitting in socially. Students spent half the day outside; there was a community nature center, gardens, and a pond. They''d been raising their own trout from eggs--Declan gave me weekly trout updates during our sessions. They were nearly big enough to release, and the whole school was going to have a big party on the last day and release the fish into the pond. Declan had been so excited: Little fish he''d watched hatch were ready to leave the tank. "How are the trout doing?" I tried. He scribbled harder, keeping his eyes on the paper. "I had a dream about them. A bad dream." "Yeah?" I leaned in. "Can you tell me about it?" He frowned, stared down at the furious swirls. "They weren''t who they said they were." I took in a breath. Rubbed at my left eye, which had started to water. "Who weren''t? The trout?" He nodded. "They were something else. They''d turned into something else." "What did they turn into?" He didn''t answer, just pursed his lips tighter. "Dreams can be scary," I said at last. "But they''re only dreams, Declan. They can''t follow you into real life." He looked up at me. "Promise?" "Promise," I said. "The fish in your class, they''re still the same beautiful trout they always were, right?" He looked up and gave me a half smile. "Right," he said. "They are." "And you''re going to let them go in the pond next week, right?" He nodded, started putting all the crayons away. He took the drawing, crumpled it up, put it in the trash. "Are you feeling sad about letting them go? Worried, maybe?" He thought a minute. "No. It''s time. They''re meant to be free, not live in a tank." "And you''ll still be able to see them," I said. "They''ll be in the pond. You can go visit them anytime you want." He nodded. "Ms. Evans says we can even catch them in nets if we want, but I don''t think it''ll be that easy, do you? If I was one of those fish, I wouldn''t let anyone catch me ever again." He spent the rest of the session talking excitedly about all the activities planned for the final week of school: the trout release, a picnic, a field trip to the science museum. When he left, his mom and I confirmed his appointment for next Friday. "Have a great last week of school," I told him. As I was closing up my office for the night, I pulled the picture out of the trash. I opened up the paper and smoothed it out. He''d drawn what appeared to be a turbulent sea with big, dark fish. His nightmare trout? They had black eyes, open mouths with jagged teeth. Some had long tentacles. And there was a little stick figure in with them, sinking, being pulled down by the tentacles, drowning. Himself? I looked closer. No. This was not a little boy with dark hair and eyes. This was a woman with long black hair, a white shirt, and gray pants. It was me. I unlocked the door to my studio apartment, shouldering my way in, my laptop bag bulging with my work computer and notes. I set it down on the floor and attended to the first order of business: pouring myself a very large glass of wine and taking three ibuprofen. I took my first fortifying sip, then went over to the bed, stripped off my social worker outfit, and put on sweats and a They Might Be Giants T-shirt. My ex-boyfriend, Phil, had bought the shirt for me. Phil enjoyed outings of all sorts--concerts, plays, basketball games. I was more of a stay-at-home-and-watch-Netflix kind of gal, but Phil insisted that going out on proper dates was something normal couples did, so I went along with it. Phil was long gone, but the T-shirt was still going strong. As I settled in on the couch and put my head back, I thought of Declan''s words: They weren''t who they said they were . And his drawing. I made a mental note to call the school on Monday to check in with his teacher, Ms. Evans, and see if she''d noticed any changes in his demeanor. My job could be stressful as shit, but it had its good days, too. And on the good days--the breakthrough days when a cowbird was not just a cowbird or when a girl came into my office grinning, saying she''d used the techniques we''d been working on to get through a panic attack at school--it was all worth it. Even though I''d been in private practice for a little less than a year, my schedule was always full, and I had a waiting list of clients. Sadly, there was no shortage of messed-up kids. I gravitated toward the tough cases--the kids everyone else had given up on. My undergrad was in psychology, and I worked in community mental health out of college for several years before deciding to go back to school for my master''s in social work. I did it while working full time, taking night classes, filling my weekends with reading and writing. My area of focus was always kids. It didn''t take a genius to figure out why I''d gotten into this line of work. And it was something my own therapist, Barbara, was fond of pointing out: "You''ve never gotten over the fact that you couldn''t fix your sister when she got sick. You couldn''t save her, so you''re trying to save all these other kids." I''d been seeing Barbara since my undergrad days and was pretty sure she knew me far better than I knew myself--not that hard, since I rarely pointed my carefully honed skills of observation and insight at myself, figuring it was far more productive to save it for my clients. I opened my eyes, took a sip of wine, and noticed the digital answering machine was blinking. Nine new messages. My stomach knotted. I knew exactly who it was without needing to push play: Lexie. And if she''d called this many times, she was, no doubt, off her meds again. When she was off her meds, she forgot that we didn''t talk anymore. That we were now properly estranged. As if on cue, the phone rang again--call numbe

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