Deanna

Deanna Anderson had built her reputation on calm—on the steady cadence of her voice, the soft neutrality of her office, the way she could sit across from the most fractured minds and never let them see her pulse quicken. Her patient today sat slouched on the couch, eyes unfocused yet oddly attentive, recounting his story in fragments that felt rehearsed. As Deanna guided him with gentle questions, a faint dizziness crept in at the edges of her awareness, like a migraine forming without pain. She adjusted her glasses, dismissed it as fatigue, and kept listening—until the room seemed to tilt, the ticking clock stretching into something thick and oppressive. The realization struck her too late. Her tongue felt heavy, her thoughts slipping through her grasp as if coated in oil, and she saw the flicker of satisfaction cross her patient’s face when her pen slipped from her fingers. He leaned forward now, voice clearer, steadier than it had been all session, while Deanna fought to keep her eyes open and her breathing even.