Chapter 11
Nathan
It’s strange how predictable I’ve become. Every time a lead comes in, the same cycle starts. First, the jolt. Then the anger. Then the imagining.
Standing behind that glass, staring at five men who could’ve been nothing — or everything — I felt it again.
The surge.
The part of me that doesn’t care about process or warrants or patience. The part that just wants a door and five minutes alone.
For months, the violence has lived in my head. Hypothetical. Controlled. A fantasy I told myself I’d never act on.
Until the elevator.
Until my fist connected, and something inside me didn’t hesitate.
That’s what’s different now.
It’s getting easier to picture crossing that line again.
Easier to justify it.
If this is what my life has become, waiting for someone to hand me answers, then part of me doesn’t want to wait anymore.
Part of me wants to find out for myself.
Handle it.
Like a man.
That thought should scare me.
It doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
Just then, my stomach groans. Most days, I barely eat. Hunger feels irrelevant.
That’s when it hits me.
The dinner.
I agreed to dinner.
One second, we were talking about Italian food, and the next, I said yes.
I could’ve said no. It would’ve been easy. A simple, clean no. I’ve gotten good at those. Good at shutting doors before they open too far.
But I didn’t. And I haven’t stopped thinking about that since.
It doesn’t make sense.
There is nothing in my life right now that calls for dinner, conversation, and sitting across from someone who still believes in normal things. No version of this is appropriate.
And yet—part of me wants to go.
Not because it feels good. It doesn’t.
It feels… charged.
Like standing too close to the edge of something.
I don’t understand what it is about her. It isn’t comfort. It isn’t distraction. It isn’t relief.
It’s gravity.
Subtle. Steady.
Pulling.
And that unsettles me more than the anger does.
Because anger makes sense.
Violence makes sense.
This?
This feels like something I don’t have control over. And if I’m honest, that scares the shit out of me.
Maybe I am unraveling.
Maybe the part of me that’s supposed to know right from wrong is getting quieter.
Or maybe I’m just desperate to feel something that isn’t rage.
Either way, I don’t trust it. And I don’t trust myself. Maybe I am broken.
The thought’s been circling for days.
So, I decided to do something about it.
That’s what brings me here… standing in a quiet office building I’ve never been in before, staring at a brass plaque that reads: Dr. Iris Pembrooke, Clinical Psychologist.
The receptionist’s chair is empty. The room smells faintly of bergamot and books.
My first instinct is to turn around and walk out.
You don’t belong here. You’re fine. You can handle this yourself.
I take a step back toward the door. Shit, this is harder than it should be.
“Can I help you, dear?” a voice calls from across the room. It’s warm but sharp, wrapped in a British accent that seems to cut through the noise in my head with the precision of a sharp knife.
I turn.
She’s older… sixties maybe, dressed in a navy cardigan and wearing glasses she doesn’t seem to need based on their low position on her nose.
There’s a calmness in her face, but it’s her tone that disarms me as she indicates a door to an inner office and says, “Come on in.” The steadiness in her feels… safe.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I have to pretend. I don’t want to. I enter the office, and she closes the door.
She tilts her head slightly. “Let’s start with why you’re here.”
I pause, caught off guard by how direct she is. “I’m not sure,” I admit.
She gestures toward a chair, then takes a seat across from me. “Well…not being sure is usually where all the good work starts. What’s your name?” she asks in a soft voice.
“Nathan,” I reply with shaken breath. I sit down.
“What are your current challenges?” she asks.
The question hangs in the air. Heavy.
“I can’t sleep. I keep having these dreams… vivid ones. And during the day, I can’t shut my mind off. I feel lost… Angry… sometimes.” The words aren’t pouring out of me, but at least they’re making it past my lips.
She nods. “Do you know what’s making you feel this way?”
I exhale. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s a good start. Would you like to share?”
I sit quietly, unsure that I’m ready for this.
“Sometimes it’s best to start at the edge of the lake, not jump directly into the middle. So maybe let’s start with one small thing. Can you do that?”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “Sure. One small thing.”
“Why did you finally decide it was time to walk in those doors? Why did you sit down? Why now?”
I stare down at my bandaged hand. “It started last week. I crossed a line I’ve never crossed before.”
She studies me for a long moment, then smiles faintly. “Hmmm, what line was that?”
“I hit someone.” I let out a breath.
“Why?” she asks gently.
“To protect someone. My instincts told me they were dangerous… so I reacted.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t judge. Just nods slowly, like she’s filing the information into a drawer she’ll come back to later.
“And how did that make you feel afterward?”
I frown. “Relieved. And… not. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“Because you’re not a violent man?” she says.
I glance up at her. “No.”
Silence settles between us.
She leans back slightly in her chair. “When your body reacts before your mind can catch up, that’s usually not about the moment you’re in. That’s about the moments you’ve survived.”
I look down.
“You said you can’t sleep. You said your mind won’t shut off. You said you feel angry and lost,” she says. “Those aren’t random symptoms. That’s a nervous system that thinks the world isn’t safe anymore.”
I stare at my hands.
“And when someone like that sees a threat,” she adds softly, “their body doesn’t ask permission.”
I swallow.
“Let me ask you something,” she says. “When you were protecting that person… did it feel familiar?”
The word lands wrong in my chest. “I don’t know,” I say, which is a lie. Or maybe not. I honestly don’t know yet.
She nods, accepting it anyway. “That’s okay. We’re not here to solve everything today.”
She glances at the clock on the wall, then back at me.
“Maybe whatever you’re running from in your sleep… whatever your mind keeps dragging you back to… your body is still living there.”
She folds her hands. “And until you figure out why, it’s going to keep pulling the fire alarm every time something even smells like danger.”
I let out a slow breath.
“So what do I do?” I ask quietly.
“For now? You don’t jump into the middle of the lake yet. We walk around the edge.”
She offers a small, reassuring smile. “Can you tell me about one of those dreams?”
I almost shut the conversation down completely. But I don’t say no.
There’s something about her that makes me feel safe.
So for the first time, I share...
The crowd was a blur of noise. My focus wasn’t on them. It was on the clipboard in front of me, on the plays scrawled across it in blue marker. Coach was talking fast, Bishop nodding beside me, and sweat ran down both our necks.
We were locked in. Fourth quarter. Tight game. The opposing team was on offense.
Somewhere behind us, the marching band blared. Parents shouted. Cheerleaders chanted—the usual noise. I didn’t even look up when the whistle blew.
Until I heard it, that sharp gasp that cut through everything.
The kind of sound that made your chest seize.
I looked up.
Maddison bolted past us, a blur of white and red, ponytail whipping behind her, cutting straight across the field.
Then I saw it. A toddler, maybe three years old, had wandered out from the sideline, right onto the field. Helmeted players were sprinting straight toward him, unseeing, their focus completely on the play. Nobody moved.
Not the refs. Not the coaches.
Not me.
She reached the kid seconds before the players collided, diving low, wrapping him in her arms, taking the hit herself.
The stadium fell silent.
For a full breath, it was like time forgot to move.
When I reached her, she was cradling the crying boy in her arms, whispering, “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re okay.”
Her face was pale. She tried to stand, and her ankle gave out. She winced, the pain flashing across her face before she hid it behind a brave smile.
“Don’t move,” I said, crouching beside her. My heart still hammered. “You’re hurt.”
She shook her head, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.
And then she looked at me. And she said, “Why weren’t you there?”
I tried to answer, but the field was empty now. No crowd. No players. No band. Just us.
She said it again. Louder. “Why didn’t you save him?”
I looked down, and the kid was gone.
“Why didn’t you save her?” She kept saying it. Over and over.
And then I wake up.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been talking.
When I finally stop, the room goes quiet… so quiet I can hear the ticking of a small clock behind me.
Dr. Pembrooke sits across from me, her expression unreadable but soft. I realize my hands are clenched, my throat dry, and I’ve just told more to this woman than I’ve said to anyone in years.
The thought hits me hard.
I just opened up to a stranger.
She notices the look on my face and offers a small, knowing smile.
“There’s a lot to unpack there, Nathan,” she says gently. “But that’s a good start. Thank you for sharing.”
I nod, still a little stunned.
She leans over to her side table and picks up a small paperback journal…
“I give one of these to all my clients,” she says, sliding it across the desk. “If you ever feel like the noise in your head is too loud, write it down. Don’t worry about it making sense. Just… get it out. You might be surprised what comes through the page.”
She pauses, eyes kind but steady. “I hope you come back. There’s more here than what you’re letting yourself see. Until next time.”