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Like an innocent child she let me lead her by the shoulders, down to thenurse's inpatient department. Once she was taken off my hands by the staff nurse I went back to my office. I wracked my brains for weeks, trying to make her talk or show some kindof emotion. I played music for her during our sessions; I even read storiesto her. Nothing helped; she just sat there looking at her hands. I was her doctor it was my job to find out what was wrong with her and cureher if at all possible. Everything I tried failed. It had been raining that day, I watched Sam from my window as she sat theremotionless as usual on the bench. Her soaking wet red hair in thick messy strandsrunning down to the base of her spine. I watched the nurses try and usher the others indoors as the rain becameheavier and more persistent, as she just sat there staring at her hands. It was 12.55 and our session would start at 1.00. I always looked forward to our sessions together, she always listened nevercomplained,. "Hey," said a voice that belonged to neither Shriya nor I. Immediately, we straightened ourselves, and turned to see Angie standing in her plaid pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt from Clinton State that showed off her toned midriff. She was without make-up, and her Irish red hair was still a mess from the bed, but it was a kind of hot mess. "Any coffee?" she asked, bleary-eyed. "Yeah, just made a pot," Shriya told her. Angie poured herself a cup, and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. She'd never been a morning person. "It's Keith's birthday," Shriya reminded her. "Oh?" Angie said uninquisitively, and without much interest. "Congratulations." "Thanks, Ange," I said. Angie wasn't much into birthdays, either. She refused to celebrate her own, and usually couldn't be bothered about anyone else's. "Do you want some breakfast?" Shriya offered. "There's enough here for all of us." "Thanks, but I'm good with coffee for now." Angie opened her laptop, and brought up the.
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