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Joe

Either way, Jessica Bishop will eventually accept a memory of her mother’s murder. It might take a few days or, as in the case with our more stubborn patients, a few weeks. Occasionally, it takes months—but that was in the early days, before I’d honed the process.

Jessica will break. It might even happen today, and I catch myself smiling at the possibility.

The screams are louder as I near the door at the end of the hall.

I withdraw my keys and flip through them for the one to her door.

Melonie has been one of the more resistant and problematic patients from the start.

It wasn’t entirely a bad thing; it allowed me to better shape the psychological profile of individuals who will or won’t respond to forced reeducation techniques.

I fit the key in her door and unlock it, then step inside.

Her screams falter as I pull the door shut.

Turning, I regard the forty-two-year-old woman chained to the outside wall.

In the last two years, all her muscle tone has melted off her large frame, leaving a shell of the landscape architect’s original physique.

Her hair is streaked with gray and matted from her repeated attempts to thrash against the wall.

Her bucket for feces and urine has been knocked over, and the smell of her waste is thick in the air.

I meet her eyes and we’re both tired of this fight. “You’ll be released tomorrow,” I say.

She doesn’t believe it. Her body tenses, and her face wars between relief and distrust.

“I’ll be back in a few hours to check on you and undo your restraints so you can sleep in bed.

In the meantime, try to rest. Screaming isn’t helping anything.

” I open the door and return to the hall, locking her room.

It’s unnecessary, given her restraints, but still—procedures are in place for a reason.

While it’s often easy to forget those reasons, it doesn’t make them any less important.

I swing by the break room, looking for my wife.

She’s not there, so I check my office next and find Dinah curled in one of the chairs, a paperback in hand.

She and I are both reading the Magdalene series, which is based in Scotland in 1920 and about the various crimes of a Protestant Glasgow razor gang.

She’s ahead of me; she tucks a bookmark in her spot and closes the book, unfolding from the chair at the sight of me.

We always vowed, from the beginning, to prioritize each other over everything.

If I am watching or listening to something, I pause it when she comes in.

If I’m on a phone call, I end it to accept her call.

If I’m with a patient, I step out if she needs me.

There is nothing in the world more important than the other person.

Everything else can wait. Anything or anyone else can be inconvenienced for our relationship.

Priorities are the difference between failure and success.

“How’s it going?” She walks over and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me against her chest.

“Good. I think it’s going to be a breakthrough day for the newest patient.”

“That’s fantastic.” She curls her hand against my chest, fisting my soft cotton shirt. “What would you like for lunch? I was thinking of making some chicken salad. I could make you a croissant sandwich or put it in a salad?”

“A sandwich would be nice.” I press my lips against hers. “Thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll run to the house and do that. There’re snacks in the kitchen if you need something before then.”

There’s something off about her, and I grip her tighter when she attempts to leave. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She pats my chest but doesn’t try to pull away again. “I’m just starving.”

I stare into her eyes, reading them. They are clear, her expression calm, but I can sense the stress radiating from her.

Maybe it’s from Jessica being here. It isn’t standard for us to have a patient with a connection to one of her cases, so I can understand the strain it must put on her. “You sure?”

I hold my breath, hoping she will share her feelings, admit her weakness, but I know my wife.

She is a tight vault, one with a complicated combination to unlock.

I don’t have the time for that right now, but later, I will.

It’s important that we share everything, big and small.

I tilt forward and kiss her again, inhaling at the touch of our lips together.

When we break apart, it feels like a loss.

“See you in a couple of hours.” She steps back and grabs her novel from the chair, dropping it into her canvas tote.

She plucks one of Jessica’s Gatorades from the small gold table beside the chair.

I purchased an eight-pack of the sports drink, and I wonder how many my wife has consumed.

We are not near a store; there is not a convenient way to replace them this weekend.

I press my lips together at her carelessness.

She moves past me and into the hall, and I take a moment and use the sleeve of my lab coat to wipe at the ring left behind by her drink.