"It was... horrible."

Amber nods, her face solemn and green eyes full of sympathy. "It sounds like a very difficult experience."

"I mean, I didn't mean to hit the kid with my tray," I sniffle. "It just happened, and it just looked so much like a shovel."

Again, Amber nods, though more slowly this time. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose in the ensuing beat of silence.

"A tray is slightly curved on the sides," Amber murmurs. Then more loudly, she asks, "what in your mind equates a shovel to a weapon?"

I search my mind for an answer. At first, I come up completely blank. It just is a weapon – it's heavy, it can cause blunt-force trauma, someone could be beaten to death with it...

I swallow. "When I was a kid, I remember there was this case my mom was working on. She never told me the details, but I do remember there was this guy they were investigating. The only thing I ever heard about him was that he used to shovel snow around the neighborhood for people. I even remember Mom inspecting a shovel one day in her study." A mirthless snort forces its way from me. "I... I just always associated the shovel with the murder weapon in that case."

"And do you think that your mom did a good job of shielding you from her job?"

"She tried her best." I reach for my water bottle and take a good, long sip. Amber waits until I've screwed the lid back into place before continuing.

"How do you think her job has contributed to your current fears?" I remain silent for a long time. Amber asks, "has her former job contributed to your fears?"

"I-I don't know." There's a beat where my brain swirls, trying to assemble disjointed thoughts and emotions in a coherent sentence. "I mean, she's solving the crimes, not committing them." I smile slightly at the irony, and Amber mirrors it, her light-pink lipstick inching up her cheeks.

"Are there any aspects about her job that bother you?"

"Not particularly." A beat. "I mean, there are. But... I don't know. I... can't think what they are, or put it into words. At least any better than in the past."

Amber nods. This isn't the first time this topic has come up.

"I guess it does worry me," I say. "Her job. You know, because it's like regular people who commit these atrocious acts."

"Yes, I remember you mentioning that in the past."

"They're just so normal, yet they do these things." I stare into Amber's blue eyes. "Why do they do these things? It's so horrible, so..." I swallow against the lump swelling in my throat.

"Are they normal?" Amber asks.

"Are they not?"

Amber's chest rises with a slow, silent breath. "Have you ever tried to find out for yourself?" I shake my head vehemently. "That's okay. I don't want to push you too hard too fast. But it might be something to keep in the back of your head. Perhaps you may discover some information that would surprise you about these people who do these things."

My gaze drifts to the floor. "I, uh, perhaps there's a chance for me to do that."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." I glance up. "I... I know I shouldn't have, but I was on my mom's phone, and I saw an email she got. She's been invited to speak at one of those conferences again."

"I see."

"Perhaps I should try to attend?"

"Do you feel ready?"

I think for a moment, trying to circumvent the fear and anxiety sloshing around my head. "I don't know when I will be."

"That sounds like it could be a yes."

I manage a small smile. "I think you may be right."

There's a slight pause while Amber glances to the side. Her eyes return to mine, and she asks, "how did the ghost story go?"

"Uh..." A nervous chuckle escapes me. "Not so good. I felt very, uh, anxious. Nervous."

"Sounds like the story did its job."

I inhale a steadying breath. "Yeah. I mean, Zoe did a good job telling the story and all. It was just... uncomfortable. But that's to be expected." Amber nods. "I mean, I hope that one day it won't affect me so much. I guess that's why I'm here."

"Absolutely," Amber says.

"I don't want to keep shutting her down, especially after what happened during our last sleepover. I know how much she enjoys impromptu ghost storytelling. You know, the drama and all."

"And I think this shows that caring side of your character. You don't want to be selfish. You want your friends to be free to have fun during your parties and get togethers, even if that means that you sacrifice a little comfort in the process. It's no small thing you've done here."

I beam, though the smile doesn't quite permeate the layers of fears inside me.

"Aside from feeling anxiety, how else did you feel during and after the story?" Amber asks.

"Not much," I say slowly.

"That's okay," Amber says with a kind, encouraging smile. "Every step you take will get you a little closer to your goals."

***

My paper cup warms my hands as I pull out a metal chair to sit in. Though Mom is across the faux-wood table, I still smell the dark, roasted scent of coffee wafting from her cup. Apparently, only parents can drink caffeine in the afternoon, while I'm stuck with tea. At least it's a fun, fall flavor, a caramel apple latte.

"Did the second day go any better than the first?" Mom asks. We've barely had a moment to breathe, let alone talk, since she picked me up from school and rushed me straight to my counseling appointment. She swirls one creamer in her coffee, then sets it aside to cool.

I have less will-power than her and immediately take a sip. Burning-hot liquid sears my tongue from beneath whipped cream. I wince and quickly put the cup down.

"Careful," Mom chuckles.

"That was a bad idea," I say sheepishly. "But school was better."

"I'm glad to hear that." Mom opens her mouth, then closes it with a smile. "Are you enjoying your classes so far?"

"Yeah. I mean, obviously I have a ton of work from AP Euro, but I think I'll enjoy it."

"And your enhanced sense class?"

"I'm in the upper level class this year." Mom's head tilts to the side. "Yeah, I was surprised, too. Apparently, the first and second year instructor left, so they just combined classes."

"They didn't replace her?" Mom asks.

"They probably didn't see the need to rush. Even with all grades combined, there's only five of us. Two of the kids who were there last year dropped out, and there aren't any freshmen."

"Interesting." At long last, Mom ventures to take a sip of coffee. "And your appointment went well?"

"Yeah." I reach for my tea, if only to have a place to keep my hands. My palms and fingers rub semi-circles around the cup's smooth sides, while the seconds of silence tick between us.

Five, six, seven.

"Hey Mom?" My voice quavers a little. Will she be mad? Please don't be mad.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Um..." I take a sip for courage, though it's still too hot to drink. "I know about the email."

"Email?" Mom straightens as a knowing expression crosses her face. "Oh, Madelyn—"

"I'm sorry!" My voice breaks. "I'm so sorry. But I was looking for that picture you took of me last week that was so cute, and I wanted to send it to my phone to show my friends, and the message notification was just there, and... oh, Mom! I'm just so sorry. I shouldn't have gone on your phone."

"Madelyn, it's okay." Mom's hand reaches across the table and encloses mine. Her skin is warm, reassuring. "I'm just sorry that you saw it. I know how that stuff upsets you."

I take a deep breath, wiping my eyes with one of my napkins before someone else sees the stray tears. "Are you going to the conference?"

"No, of course not," Mom says. "Like I said, I don't want to upset you."

My gaze drops to my lap. "I was kind of hoping you would."

"Really?" Mom sounds surprised, and when I look up, her thin eyebrows are arched above her wide, gray-blue eyes. "Why?"

"Because I want to come." Mom's hand freezes around her cup, about to drink, but paused in time. "Really. I do. It was one of my... challenges for the week."

Mom's jaw works, like she's chewing her words. "That conference isn't for another month."

"Amber thought it'd be good for me to attend. To start facing my anxiety."

"There are less intense ways of doing that. Really, I don't think..."

"But I do. Don't you get paid whenever you speak?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"And it adds to your resume."

"In a way, but—"

"Do you not want to give crime talks anymore? I thought you loved those conferences, getting a piece of your life back for a weekend."

Mom takes a long sip. "Yes, Madelyn. I do enjoy attending these conferences. And it is an honor to speak at them. But I don't think it's healthy for you."

I swallow. Doubts are creeping back into my mind. Perhaps she's right. Maybe I'm not ready.

Will I ever be ready? Is there truly a first step to addressing my anxiety, or do I just have to jump in somewhere, no matter how uncomfortable?

"Amber thought it might help," I whisper. "But if you think otherwise, I get that. I just don't want to keep taking from you, Mom. You've given up your career for me, and yet I haven't done my part in trying to heal. I think this could be a good first step, for both of us. You get something; I get something."

A weighted pause settles over us. I drink my tea to fill the time, focusing on the sweet taste and not the bitter thoughts, questions, worries, plaguing my brain.

"I-I'll think about it." Mom quickly downs her coffee, then stands. "I'll be back in a moment. I need to use the restroom."

While her heels click away from the table, I pull out my phone, scrolling through social media and email notifications. Buried somewhere in the middle, a bright red heart icon catches my eye. My pulse quickens at the words scrawled beside, and dread lurks at the edges of my already panicked thoughts.

"Congratulations! You have a match."

What have I gotten myself into?