Three weeks later, I'm sitting in Dr. Reeves's office, and for the first time, I don't have a crisis to report.
"So," she says, settling into her chair with that familiar, patient expression. "How are you feeling?"
"Good," I say, and then pause. "Actually good. Not just saying it."
She smiles. "Tell me about that."
I think about the past few weeks. The way normalcy has slowly, carefully returned. How I can walk through the school hallways without my heart racing. How I sleep through most nights now without nightmares.
"I'm not waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore," I say. "Or... I am, sometimes. But it doesn't control me the way it used to."
"That's significant progress, Dakota."
"I still have bad days," I admit. "Last week, someone bumped into me in the hallway and I complete
