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Nineteen more days. Four hundred and fifty-six more hours. Seventeen sessions of therapy to go. Eleven of them with Dr. Chastain.

For the first time since arriving at Oasis, I’m not sure I’m going to make it the full thirty days. I can’t shake a feeling of impending doom. It lurks around me, hiding just outside my peripheral vision. Biding its time before unleashing disaster.

I can no longer clearly envision my life in the real world, though I suppose I wasn’t really living, merely sustaining the impression of life. I had fun in college, I think. Wild days bled into wilder nights. Concerts and festivals. Traveling in vans clouded with pot smoke. Dying my hair blue and piercing my navel.

Drifting… Jameson my only anchor in the world.

Empty inside.

Alone.

After college, I remember holding two or three odd jobs at a time to avoid asking my father or Jameson for money. Dingy apartments with peeling paint on the cabinetry. Then the craftsman Kevin and I had shared, before cheating and record-burning. After, homeless and crashing in Jameson’s spare bedroom. Feeling sick all the time, both physically and emotionally. Watching reruns of Battlestar Galactica and eating frozen waffles by the box.

A human train wreck.

What happened to me?

“Can you share with me the last memory you have prior to March 3, 2016?”

I pick at the frayed edges of my shorts, not looking up. Avoiding his X-ray eyes. Memory comes begrudgingly. Polluted. Distorted. Dug with pain from unyielding ground.

“I woke up at Jameson’s. But I… I don’t know why I was there. I think I had my own apartment by then—it had been a few months since the breakup. I remember Jameson was getting ready for work. He made me toast. It had lots of nuts and too much butter. The smell made me sick.”

Pen scratches paper. “You mentioned you’d been feeling sick after leaving Kevin. Did you ever see a doctor?”

“No. It wasn’t anything, really. Dizziness. Fatigue.” I shrug. “Just… life catching up, I guess.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

“You look tired, Amelia. Did you sleep all right?”

I’m so fogged, I can’t even muster anger. Of course I’m tired. Our confrontation last night is surreal in the light of day, but I hadn’t fallen asleep until four in the morning.

I no longer know if the heat I saw in his eyes was real or not. For the last thirty minutes, there’s been no sign of it. Not that I’m looking—I haven’t looked at him once.

“More bad dreams,” I answer noncommittally.

“Anything specific?”

I massage my temples. “Swimming in the middle of the ocean. Feeling tired, about to give up. In another one I was stranded on the side of a cliff with no rope. I must have been thrashing around or something, because my muscles were sore this morning. Oh, and eating an ice cream cone, only every time I tried to taste it, the single scoop fell into a dirty sidewalk gutter.”

“What’s your favorite ice cream?”

I blink, my eyes flickering up. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Pistachio gelato.”

Expensive fabric rustles as he shifts in his chair. “When was the last time you had it?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. A couple of years, maybe.”

“Why so long? Why deny yourself something you love?”

“I’m watching my figure,” I snap, though without heat. “Jesus, Doc, where is this conversation going?”

Chastain sighs. “All right. Let’s refocus. Tell me a little more about Kevin. How did you two meet?”