The office smelled faintly of lavender and old books, the kind of scent that always made Desiree feel oddly safe. Dr. Felicia’s office had become a place she both dreaded and craved, a space where her walls cracked no matter how tightly she held them up.

She sat stiffly in the chair, her backpack at her feet, fingers worrying at the hem of her sleeve. The last time she had come in here, she had crumbled like a child, crying until her throat was raw. Embarrassment still prickled at the ...