2: 2
"Mr. Henson, Gwendolen Winfield's situation is very unusual. The school would like you to handle the psychological intervention."
The principal pushed the file across the desk, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I paged through it.
Father dead. Mother remarried and out of contact. Guardianship with an aunt, Pauline Winfield.
Long-term victim of school bullying. The perpetrator, Christian Dickerson, son of the real estate developer Bernard Dickerson.
"I won't take it."
I pushed the file back. My fingers were cold.
"A female student, a grown male counselor. Professionally, it's inappropriate from the start."
"Give it to Lucia James. She's a woman. It's easier that way."
The principal's brow tightened, and there was an edge of irritation in his voice.
"But Gwendolen asked for you by name."
My hand went still.
"She says she only trusts you."
She'd said the same thing in my last life.
For a normal patient with post-traumatic stress, building trust takes a long, careful process of testing the waters.
This kind of instant, absolute trust ran against everything psychology knew to be true.
"Let Lucia take it. I'll supervise remotely, start to finish."
I held my line hard.
Lucia took the case.
Three days later, Gwendolen sat in the counseling room and wouldn't say a word.
A week later, she suddenly broke down in the counseling room and started smashing things.
By the time the internal call reached me and I got there, broken glass was scattered all over the floor.
Lucia was pressed into the corner, her face white. She'd clearly been badly frightened.
Gwendolen's hand was cut open, blood running down from her wrist.
The moment she saw it was me, the tears came pouring out at once.
"You came."
She tipped her head back to look at me, her voice trembling.
I stopped outside the door and didn't take a single step inside.
"Let Ms. James bandage it for you."
There wasn't a flicker of movement in my voice.
"I don't want Ms. James…"
She screamed suddenly, fixing her eyes on me, and in them was a fixation that was almost sick.
"Mr. Henson, I want you to help me."
A ring of teachers and students had already gathered in the hallway to watch.
Someone muttered under their breath.
"That's cold-hearted, even for him."
Someone shook their head.
"Look at the expert, putting on airs. Scared of taking the responsibility, probably."
The knives of public opinion started cutting into me again, exactly the same as in my past life.
"Gwendolen, your hand needs to be treated."
"Ms. James will help you. If she can't, the school will call 911."
With that, I turned without hesitation and walked away.
That afternoon, the bully's father, Bernard Dickerson, showed up.
Suit and tie, a stone-faced lawyer trailing behind him.
"Mr. Henson, let's not talk in circles. Can that rooftop video be deleted?"
"Kids messing around. No need to blow it up into something it isn't!"
"The video's already been handed over to the police."
I cut him off coldly.
Bernard's face changed, then he pasted the smile back on.
"I'm willing to fund Gwendolen all the way through college, and I'll donate some equipment money to you as well, Mr. Henson."
"Everyone comes out of this with their dignity intact. How about it?"
I pointed at the security camera overhead.
"Mr. Dickerson, everything you just said is on record right here. Are you attempting to bribe a public official?"
He walked out with his face like iron.
Before the lawyer left, he gave me a long look, wary.
Once they were gone, I immediately pulled up the counseling room footage from that morning.
On the screen, Lucia was calmly guiding the session in a gentle tone.
Ten seconds later, she picked up the ceramic mug from the table and, with a crack, smashed it against the floor.
After she smashed the cup, she turned her head and glanced toward the door.
Then she picked up a shard and drew it across the back of her own hand.
And a minute later, I appeared in the doorway.
Why did it always have to be me?
I stared at the screen, and that suffocating feeling pressed down heavier and heavier.
