Chapter 3 - Fern
I don’t sleep well in the cottage.
The bed is comfortable, the room is quiet, and Ruby made sure I had everything I needed before she left last night. But every creak of the old house makes me bolt upright, and every shadow outside the window sends my heart racing. By the time dawn breaks, I’ve maybe slept two hours total.
I make coffee in the small kitchen and try to convince myself that coming here was the right choice. The cottage is cozy—one bedroom, a bathroom with an actual tub, and a living area with a fireplace. Better than sleeping in my car. Safer than being on the road.
But is it safe enough?
I check my phone for the hundredth time.
No messages from Robbie, which should be a relief, but somehow makes me more nervous.
He’s out there somewhere, probably tracking me, definitely angry that I ran.
The thought of him cutting my timing belt while I slept in some rest stop parking lot makes my stomach turn.
At 8:30, I walk back to the medical center. The morning is beautiful—crisp and cool, with mist still clinging to the trees surrounding Silvercreek. People wave as I pass, friendly and so different from New York. Nobody here knows me, but they smile anyway.
An older man tips his hat as he passes. A woman walking her dog calls out a cheerful good morning. A group of teenagers heading somewhere laugh and jostle each other, carefree in a way I haven’t felt in months. Maybe years.
Patricia is already at her desk when I arrive, with her reading glasses perched on her nose as she reviews paperwork. She looks up and beams when she sees me.
“Fern! Good morning. How was your first night in the cottage?”
“Quiet,” I reply, which is technically true. “Thank you again for letting me stay there.”
“Of course, dear. Coffee?” She gestures to a pot in the corner.
I attempt a smile. “I already had three cups. Nervous energy.”
Patricia laughs and waves me into a chair across from her desk. “Well, let’s see if we can turn that nervous energy into excitement. Tell me about your experience.”
I walk her through my credentials—my master’s in clinical psychology from NYU, my five years at a practice in Manhattan specializing in trauma therapy.
I explain my approach, my philosophy, and the populations I’ve worked with.
PTSD survivors, domestic violence victims, and people dealing with complex grief.
Patricia nods along and makes occasional notes.
“Do you have a resume I can keep for our files?” she asks.
“Not an updated one. This wasn’t exactly…” I trail off, not sure how much to explain. “I left New York in a hurry. Most of my files are still at my old apartment.”
“I see.” Patricia sets down her pen and studies me over her glasses. “You know, we believe a great deal in fate here in Silvercreek. The way you ended up on our doorstep, right when we needed you most? That seems like more than a coincidence.”
“You don’t even know if I’m any good at my job.”
“Are you?”
The directness of the question catches me off guard. Even if I don’t apply my methods to my own life, I am great at helping others. “Yes. I’m very good at what I do.”
“Then that’s all I need to know.” Patricia pulls out a folder and slides it across the desk.
“This is a trial employment contract. Sixty days to start. If we’re both happy at the end of that period, we’ll make it permanent.
The salary isn’t going to make you rich, but it includes the cottage and health insurance. ”
I review the contract, noting the generous terms. The salary is actually better than I expected for a small-town practice. The benefits are solid. The cottage alone would cost me more than the salary reduction if I were paying rent in Manhattan.
“This is very fair.”
“We take care of our people here.” Patricia hands me a pen. “What do you say?”
I should ask more questions. Request references, tour the facilities properly, and maybe meet the rest of the staff. But my hand is already moving, signing my name at the bottom of the contract before my logical brain can catch up.
“Wonderful!” Patricia collects the paperwork and tucks it into a filing cabinet. “You can start today if you’d like. We have a few patients scheduled who would benefit from your expertise. Nothing too overwhelming for your first day—just some initial consultations.”
“Today? I don’t even have my office set up—”
“We’ll use the consultation room down the hall. It’s all ready for you.” Patricia stands and beckons me to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
The medical center is larger than it appeared from the outside.
Patricia walks me through the examination rooms, the small in-house pharmacy, and the supply closets.
There’s a break room with a decent coffee maker and a bulletin board covered in community announcements.
A flyer for a bake sale catches my eye. Another advertises yoga classes at the community center.
Everything is clean and well-organized, professional despite the small-town setting. The staff we pass greet Patricia warmly and eye me with friendly curiosity. A nurse named Skylar introduces herself. A medical assistant named Tom offers to show me where the good snacks are hidden.
The consultation room is at the end of the hall, painted a soothing sage green, with two comfortable-looking chairs positioned at an angle to each other. A small desk sits in the corner with a laptop and a filing cabinet. A window overlooks the trees behind the building.
“Perfect,” I declare, and mean it.
“Your first appointment is at ten. Michael Henderson, seventeen. His mother is worried about his mood swings.” Patricia hands me a thin file. “Standard adolescent stuff, from what I can tell, but I’m not the expert.”
I flip through Michael’s intake forms, already slipping into professional mode.
Depression screening scores are in the moderate range.
Family history section is mostly blank. School performance has been declining over the past six months.
Classic presentation for adjustment disorder, possibly masking underlying anxiety.
“I can work with this.”
“I’ll let you get settled in. Let me know if you need anything.” Patricia pauses at the door. “And Fern? Welcome to Silvercreek. I have a feeling you’re going to fit in just fine here.”
After she leaves, I spend twenty minutes arranging the space to my liking. I move the desk just a bit and adjust the chairs for optimal eye contact without feeling confrontational. I find a notebook and pens in the desk drawer, along with a box of tissues. The basics.
I test the laptop, check the filing system, and organize my materials. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.
Then my phone goes off. I check it automatically, then wish I hadn’t.
Unknown number. I hover my finger over the message.
You can’t hide from me.
My hands shake as I delete the text and block the number. It won’t stop him; he’ll just use a different phone, a different approach. He always does.
A knock at the door makes me jump.
“Dr. Ramos?” A teenage boy stands in the doorway, gangly and uncomfortable in his own skin. Michael, I presume. His mother loiters behind him with worry etched into every line of her face.
I force a smile and tuck my phone away. “Come in. You must be Michael.”
The mother introduces herself as Linda and explains that she’ll wait in the lobby. Michael slouches into the patient chair and stares at his shoes. His hoodie is pulled up despite the room being quite warm. Classic teenage armor.
“So,” I begin as I settle into my own chair, “your mom says you’ve been having a rough time lately.”
“She worries too much.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she’s picking up on something real. Want to tell me about it?”
“Not really.”
“Fair enough. Then let me tell you how this works.” I set down my notepad, making it clear I’m not taking notes yet.
“This is your space. Your time. Whatever you say in here stays between us unless you’re planning to hurt yourself or someone else.
I’m not going to run to your mom with reports.
I’m not going to judge you. I’m just here to listen. ”
Michael’s shoulders relax just a fraction. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. So. What’s going on?”
The session goes well. Michael is guarded at first, but opens up once I establish that I’m not going to push him or patronize him.
His mood swings aren’t depression—they’re anxiety manifesting as irritability.
His parents’ recent divorce is the trigger.
His dad moved to another state. His mom works two jobs now.
He’s essentially raising his younger sister while trying to keep his grades up and pretending everything is fine.
“Sounds exhausting,” I acknowledge when he finishes.
“It is.”
“You know what I’m hearing? That you’re doing an incredible job holding everything together. But you’re also human, and humans have limits. It’s okay to admit when you’re overwhelmed.”
“What’s the point? Nothing’s going to change.”
“Maybe not right away. But we can work on strategies to help you manage the stress. Ways to communicate with your mom about what you need. Coping mechanisms for when the anxiety gets too loud. You don’t have to figure this all out alone.”
By the end of our hour, we have a plan and a follow-up appointment scheduled. Michael leaves with something that might be hope in his eyes.
My next appointment is with a woman in her thirties dealing with grief after losing her father.
Margaret sits with perfect posture and dabs at her eyes with a tissue, apologizing every time she cries.
We spend the session giving her permission to grieve, to feel angry at her father for dying, and to acknowledge that grief isn’t linear or predictable.