Becca lay on Carolyn’s couch, staring up at a copper tin ceiling.
“Tell me how you’re feeling right now,” Carolyn said.
A pen scratched on paper. Becca wondered what she was writing down.
“I feel…so frustrated,” Becca said. She took in a deep breath.
“Why?” Carolyn asked.
How long had she been here? Through the single octagon stained-glass window, the last rays of the evening were long gone, replaced with wintry starlight.
“I’m frustrated at myself for not being stronger,” Becca said. She focused on a tile on the ceiling whose ornate texture reminded her of the ridges on a metal picture frame. “I’m supposed to be strong. I’ve lived my whole life independently. I don’t like to rely on anyone for anything. I’m supposed to be tough-as-nails Becca. People rely on me. I’m the person peopl
